THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


I 


BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS  AND 


OTHER   POEMS 


BY 

F.    P.    KOPTA 


SECOND  EDITION 


NEW  YORK  : 

WILLIAM  E.  JENKINS, 
1896. 


Copyright,  1S94, 
BY  F.  P.   KOPTA. 


Copyright,  isoo, 
BY  F.  P.  KOPTA. 


PS 


DEDICATED 


TO 


VOJTA   NAPRSTEK,    ESQ 


CHIEF  OF  THE  CITY  COUNSEL  OF  PRAGUE. 


&L8GSJ1 


INTRODUCTION 

TO   THE   SECOND   EDITION. 

BOHEMIAN  literature  is  hardly  known;  indeed,  many 
people  do  not  even  know  that  such  a  literature  exists  at 
all.  Of  late  some  praiseworthy  efforts  have  heen  made 
by  Mr.  Wratislaw,  M.A.  (late  fellow  of  Christ  College, 
Cambridge),  and  some  French  writers,  to  rescue  from 
oblivion  at  least  something  of  Bohemian  literature.  In 
his  own  words  {Literature  of  Bohemia,  George  Bell  Co. 
1878),  he  says:  "And  at  the  present  time  the  people  of 
Great  Britain  are  for  the  most  part  in  a  similar  state  of 
ignorance  with  regard  to  the  literature  of  Bohemia, 
scarcely  believing  indeed  that  it  has  any  literature  at  all, 
and  utterly  at  a  loss  to  account  for  that  great  intel- 
lectual and  religious  revolution,  which,  in  the  beginning 
of  the  fifteenth  century,  shook  the  power  of  Rome  to 
its  foundation,  and  animated  a  Slavonic  people  of  only 
four  millions  to  maintain  successfully  a  single-handed 
conflict  against  the  Papacy  and  the  German  empire  for 
full  tsvo  hundred  years.  And  if  it  yielded  at  length  to 
overwhelming  numbers  and  weight,  it  was  not  until  it  had 
been  undermined  for  nearly  a  century  by  the  crafty  and 
cruel  policy  of  scions  of  the  Hapsbnrg  dynasty  upon  its 
throne.  *  *  *  It  is  a  very  unfortunate  circum- 
stance that  so  much  of  Bohemian  literature  has  been 
lost,  or  rather  ruthlessly  destroyed  by  the  emissaries  and 
agents  of  the  Church  of  Rome.  *  *  *  It  mat- 
tered little  to  such  barbarians  whether  any  work  that 
fell  into  their  clutches  was  of  Catholic  or  Protestant 


vi  INTRODUCTION. 

tendency,  if  it  were  but  in  the  detested  Bohemian 
tongue,  and  one  Jesuit  boasted  on  his  death-bed  that 
he  had  destroyed  with  his  own  hands  no  less  than  sixty 
thousand  volumes  in  that  language."  I  would  also 
mention  a  very  valuable  collection  of  translations  made 
from  the  Bohemian  by  the  celebrated  English  linguist, 
Dr.  John  Bowring  ( Vybor  z  basnictvi  Ceskeho,  Chesk- 
ian  Anthology).  Being  a  history  of  the  poetical 
literature  of  Bohemia,  with  translations  by  Dr.  John 
Bowring  (London,  1832:  Rowland  Hunter).  He  also  in 
his  introduction  explains  why  Bohemia  has  so  little 
literature,  and  also,  in  a  way,  why  it  never  can  have. 
Writing  of  the  battle  of  Bila  Hora,  he  says:  "  Though 
the  battle  of  the  White  Mountain,  in  1G20,  was  fatal 
only  to  the  reformers  of  Bohemia,  yet  its  consequences 
were  terrible  to  the  whole  Bohemian  people.  Civil  war 
in  its  worse  shape  devastated  the  land,  and  so  fierce 
were  its  visitations  that  the  Jesuit  Balbin,  in  one  of  his 
letters,  expresses  his  surprise  that  after  so  many  proscrip- 
tions, exiles,  flights,  and  suffering,  a  single  inhabitant 
should  remain.  The  language  of  Bohemia  was  aban- 
doned— its  literature  fell  into  decay.  The  taint  of 
heresy  had  so  deeply  stained  the  works  of  more  than 
two  centuries,  that  they  were  all  recklessly  condemned 
to  the  flames.  Banishment  was  the  portion  of  the  most 
illustrious  among  the  Bohemians,  and  equal,  uudistin- 
guishiug  malediction  pursued  everything  which  bore  a 
Slavonian  character.  Legends  of  the  saints,  trumpery 
discussions  about  trumpery  dogmas — and  all  those 
streams  of  pitiful  and  useless  learning,  in  which  civil 
and  religious  despotism  seek  to  engage  and  exhaust 
inquiry,  were  poured  over  Bohemia."  *  *  *  "An 
ingenuous  criticism  on  the  popular  poetry  of  the  Bohe- 
mians may  be  seen  in  the  Prague  Monthly  Periodical 
(August,  1827),  written  by  M.  Muller,  the  aesthetic 
professor,  in  that  capital,  There  is  truth  In  the  observa- 


INTRODUCTION.  vii 

tion,  that  history  and  heroism  have  furnished  few  sub- 
jects for  the  Bohemian  national  songs,  and,  he  says,  is 
the  more  remarkable  when  they  are  compared  or  con- 
trasted witli  those  of  other  Slavonian  races,  especially  the 
Servian  and  the  Russian.  But  how  should  such  songs 
exist — or  rather  if  they  ever  existed,  how  should  they 
be  long  preserved  in  a  state  of  society  where  no  man 
dares  to  be  a  Bohemian?  That  freedom  of  thought  and 
expression  which  opens  to  the  poet  the  great  expanse 
of  space  and  time — the  whole  field  of  the  past  and  the 
future — which  allows  him  to  revel  in  all  that  is  delight- 
ful in  recollection,  and  in  all  that  is  beautiful  in 
anticipation — is  denied  to  the  minstrel  of  Bohemia. 
He  may  neither  record  the  struggles  of  his  ancestors  for 
liberty,  nor  dream  of  the  day  when  self-government 
shall  give  to  his  country  whatever  of  happiness  she  is 
capable  of  enjoying.  Love,  of  all  the  passions  which  he 
is  permitted  to  sing,  is  that  which  allows  the  widest 
scope  to  his  imagination — and  love  is  the  ever-ruling 
subject  of  his  verse.  And  surely  their  popular  poets 
have  treated  this  subject  with  exquisite  tenderness  and 
effect."  These  are  the  opinions  and  words  of  two 
Englishmen,  who  trod  before  me  the  thorny  path  of 
Bohemian  literature.  Had  their  works  been  published 
in  Austria,  the  same  fate  that  met  my  book,  "  Bohemian 
Legends  and  Ballads,"  would  have  met  them.  They 
would  have  been  confiscated.  Dr.  John  Bowring,  speak- 
ing of  poor  Hanka,  says:  "It  is  to  be  hoped  that  no 
impediment  will  be  thrown  in  his  way,  which  one 
cannot  but  fear,  from  the  arbitrary  suppression  of  the 
fifth  volume  of  his  collection.  It  is  not  much  to 
allow,  that  those  who  have  no  hope  of  the  future 
may  be  permitted  to  indulge  in  the  memories  of 
the  past."  This  sin  I  committed,  and  so  my  poor 
little  book  was  confiscated.  I  can  only  say  that  the  pub- 


vili  INTRODUCTION. 

lishers,  Jansky  &  Co,  placed  it  before  the  proper 
authorities  and  received  permission  to  publish  it; 
about  three  months  after,  when  it  had  been  publicly 
sold  all  over  Austria,  it  was  suddenly  confiscated  on  the 
22d  of  June,  1890.  At  first  I  was  told  it  was  on  ac- 
count of  the  poem  "  John  Huss,"  but  in  about  two  weeks 
I  received  the  written  explanation  that  it  was  on  ac- 
count of  "  The  Patriots."  The  Austrian  government 
did  not  confiscate  my  poem  because  it  was  historically 
untrue,  but  because  they  said  that,  "  one  could  think 
that  Ferdinand  had  acted  on  the  advice  of  his  father 
confessor/'  Here  I  beg  to  say  that  such  a  thought 
never  entered  my  head,  and  that  I  agree  with  William 
Coxe,  F.R.S.,  F.A.S.  (Coxe's  House  of  Austria,  JBoJtn's 
Standard  Library,  p.  181,  Pelzel,  pp.  731-742): 
"  Several  native  and  Catholic  writers  endeavor  to  exten- 
uate the  cruelty  of  Ferdinand,  by  declaring  that  he 
was  with  difficulty  induced  to  make  these  dreadful  ex- 
amples; and  was  overborne  by  the  representations  of  his 
ministers  and  the  Jesuits.  Admitting  this  fact,  it  is  no 
exculpation  of  his  conduct  to  assert  that  he  acted  un- 
justly by  the  advice  of  his  ministers.  But  the  preced- 
ing and  subsequent  transactions,  as  well  as  the  general 
character,  the  relentless  disposition,  and  the  deep-rooted 
prejudices  of  Ferdinand,  furnish  ample  evidence  that 
he  wanted  no  external  impulse  to  commit  acts  of 
persecution  and  cruelty  against  the  Protestants." 
There  is  also  another  poem  that  may  want  an  explana- 
tion, and  that  is,  Kryspek's  "  Goblet."  It  will  be  found 
in  Coxe' s  House  of  Austria,  Vol.  II.,  p.  180.  "Three 
months  elapsed  without  the  slightest  act  of  severity 
against  the  insurgents  of  Bohemia.  Many,  lulled  into 
security  by  the  dreadful  calm,  emerged  from  their  hid- 
ing places,  and  the  greater  part  remained  quiet  at 
Prague.  But  in  an  evil  hour  all  the  fury  of  the  tempest 
burst  upon  their  heads.  Forty  of  the  principal  insur- 


INTRODUCTION,  ix 

gents  were  arrested  in  the  night  of  the  21st  of  January, 
1621,  and  after  being  imprisoned  four  months,  and 
tried  before  an  imperial  committee  of  inquiry,  twenty- 
three  were  publicly  executed,  their  property  confiscated, 
the  remainder  either  banished  or  condemned  to  perpet- 
ual imprisonment.  Nor  were  these  examples  confined 
only  to  those  who  had  been  openly  concerned  in  the  re- 
bellion, for  a  mandate  of  more  than  inquisitorial  severity 
was  issued,  commanding  all  landholders  who  had 
participated  in  the  insurrection  to  confess  their  delin- 
quencies, and  threatening  the  severest  vengeance  if  they 
were  afterward  convicted.  This  dreadful  order  spread 
general  consternation;  not  only  those  who  had  shared 
in  the  insurrection  acknowledged  their  guilt,  but  even 
the  innocent  were  driven  by  terror  to  self-accusation; 
and  above  seven  hundred  nobles  and  knights,  almost 
the  whole  body  of  the  landholders,  placed  their  names 
on  the  list  of  proscription.  By  a  mockery  of  the  very 
name  of  mercy,  the  emperor  granted  to  these  un- 
fortunate victims  their  lives,  and  honors,  which 
they  were  declared  to  have  forfeited  by  their  own 
confession;  but  gratified  his  vengeance  and  rapacity 
by  confiscating  the  whole  or  part  of  their  prop- 
erty, and  thus  reduced  many  of  the  most  loyal  and 
ancient  families  to  ruin,  or  drove  them  to  seek  a  refuge 
from  their  misfortunes  in  exile  or  death/'  The  bodies 
of  the  Kryspek  family  can  still  be  seen  in  Kralovice. 
They  were  among  those  who  preferred  to  die  rather 
than  wait  to  be  perhaps  tortured  or  driven  from  their 
country  as  beggars.  As  to  the  interview  between  Ferdi- 
nand and  his  confessor,  it  is  historically  true,  and  the 
whole  account  can  be  found  in  Histoire  Guerre  de 
Trente  Ans,  1618  and  1648,  par  E.  Cliarveriat  Tome 
premier,  p.  251,  Paris,  1878.  "Ferdinand  passa  sans 
repos  la  nuit  qui  preceda  la  signature,  Le  lendewaia 


matin,  il  demand  a  a  son  confesseur,  le  Pere  Lanior- 
main,  s'it  pouvait,  sans  blesser  sa  conscience  condamner 
ou  faire  grace.  Lamormain  lui  ay  ant  repondu  qu'il 
avait  le  droit  de  faire  1'un  et  1'autre,  1'Empereur  signa 
1'arret  de  mort  de  vingt-huit  des  condamnes,  la  plupart 
anciens  directeurs."  My  own  poem  is  founded  on  an 
old  chronicle  published  in  Amsterdam.  To  those  who, 
having  read  my  poor  book,  may  feel  an  interest  in 
Bohemian  history,  I  take  the  liberty  to  name  the  works 
from  which  I  drew  my  information:  Qrube  Geschichts- 
lilder,  p.  195,  Leipzig;  Coxe's  House  of  Austria, 
Bohn's  Standard  Library,  London,  1877;  Persecutions 
des  Pairiotes  Bohemes,  18&1;  D'apres  la  Chronique, 
Amsterdam,  1648,  p.48;  Histoire  Guerre  de  Trente  Ans, 
1618  and  1648,  par  E.  Charveriat,  Paris,  1878;  History 
of  Germany,  by  Markham,  London,  1876;  The  Weltge- 
schichte  von  Moritz  Heger  and  Moritz  Sclilimpert, 
Dresden,  1856,  p.  502;  Geschichte  des  Dreissigjdhrigen 
Kriegs,  Schiller,  Leipzig,  1868,  p.  61;  La  Boheme,  par 
Joseph  Friez  and  Louis  Leger,  Paris,  1867  (this  work 
is  also  forbidden  in  Austria);  Chants  Heroiques  et 
Chansons,  Populaires  des  Slaves  de  Boheme,  par  Louis 
Leger,  Paris,  1866;  The  Native  Literature  of  Bohemia 
in  the  Fourteenth  Century,  by  A.  B.  Wratislaw,  M.A., 
London,  1878.* 

Trusting  that  my  book  may  do  something  toward 
making  Bohemian  literature  better  known,  I  send  my 
poor  little  book  out  into  the  wide  world  of  intellectual 
thought,  feeling  sure  that  all  will  sympathize  with  my 
effort,  and  that  some  may  even  feel  pleasure  in  reading 
the  songs  of  long  ago. 

P.  P.  KOPTA. 

*  There  is  also  a  translatiou  of  some  Bohemian  songs  by  a  Mrs. 
Robinson,  New  York,  1850  (I  have  never  been  able  to  get  the 
book);  Chansons  pupulaires  de  la  Boherue,  Prague,  1854,  by  Karel 
;  Bodianski, Moscow,  1887;  Ludevit  Stur,  Prague,  1853, 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE, 

Bohemia F.  P.  Kopta.  1 

John  Huss ;. .  .F.  P.  Kopta.  3 

A  Hussite  Song.     Attributed  to  Zizka 5 

To  the  Memory  of  the  Patriots F.  P.  Kopta.  7 

Kryspek's  Goblet F.  Cermak.  12 

Dalibor F.  P.  Kopta.  16 

The  Enchanted  Maid F.  P.  Kopta.  21 

The  Bride  of  Heaven F.  P.  Kopta.  24 

John,  Sacrificed  John K.  S.  Snaidr.  27 

The  Story  of  a  Lost  Soul F.  P.  Kopta.  33 

The  Devil's  Bride F.  P.  Kopta.  37 

The  Lover  by  the  Grave F.  P.  Kopta.  40 

The  Wizard F.  P.  Kopta.  42 

Three  Ages  in  Bohemia B.  Jablonsky.  44 

The  Wedding  Shirt K.  Erben.  49 

The  Gold  Spinning  Wheel K.  Erben.  60 

Christmas K.  Machacek.  70 

The  Orphan K.  Erben.  73 

Bfetislav ,  J.  E.  Vocel.  74 

A  Bohemian  Legend K.  Erben.  77 

The  Gentleman  From  Lkouse,  Old  Bohemian  Leg- 
end from  1571 J.  Vrchlicky.  79 

The  Youth  from  Hrusova Vaclav  Kab.  81 

The  Daughter's  Curse K.  Erben.  84 

The  Story  of  a  New  Mother F.  P.  Kopta.  86 

The  Mysterious  Ringing ,  Jos.  Wiiusch.  88 


x{{  CONTENTS. 

POEMS— SONGS. 

PAGE. 

Invitation  to  Song B.  Jablonsky.     91 

Sweet  Death National  Song.     92 

Song  of  a  Soldier National  Song.     93 

Why  Is  It? National  Song.     94 

When  I  Went  to  See  You National  Song.     95 

At  the  Church  Door National  Song.     96 

Cuckoo  Song National  Song.     97 

Good-Night National  Song.     98 

Are  Not,  Are  Not National  Song.     99 

It  Is  God's  Will National  Song.  100 

Beautiful  Stars National  Song.  101 

Going  a  Wooing National  Song.  102 

Made  of  the  Earth National  Song.  103 

The  Rain National  Song.  104 

Prayer  on  the  Mountain  Rip J.  Vrchlicky.  105 

Comfort Snaidr.  106 

Songs  of  the  Heavens., Jan  Neruda.  107 

Happiness  and  Mystery F.  L.  Celakovsky.  110 

Self  Sought Jablonsky.  Ill 

Truth  Must  Conquer Jablonsky.  112 

I  Remind  You Svatopluk  Cech.  113 

The  Bohemian  Mother's  Tale F.  P.  Kopta.  114 

The  Bohemian  Monk F.  P.  Kopta.  118 

Farewell Adolph  Heyduk.  120 

The  Way  is  Long Adolph  Heyduk.  121 

Poem  V.— Song Adolph  Heyduk.  122 

I  Used  to  Think Adolph  Heyduk.  123 

The  Wedding Adolph  Heyduk.  124 

SongX Adolph  Heyduk.  125 

The  Forest  Nymph Adolph  Heyduk.  126 

Grass Jos.  V.  Sladek.   129 

Song  XX Adolph  Heyduk.  130 

Myrtle,,, , Adolph  Heyduk,  131 


CONTENTS  xiii 

PAGE. 

Mater  Dolorosa Jaroslav  Vrchlicky.  132 

Myrtle  Cypress Jaroslav  Vrchlicky.  133 

Flax Jos.  V.  Sladek.  134 

The  Old  Bachelor .Jos.  V.  Sladek.  135 

Battle Jos.  V.  Sladek.   136 

Pilgrim Jos.  V.  Sladek.   137 

Violets  Bloom  in  Spring Jos.  V.  Sladek.   138 

When  the  Day  Ends Jos.  V.  Sladek.  139 

Ach,  No — Thou  Sleepest Tereza  Mellanova.  140 

Concord  in  the  Nation J.  L.  Zvonaf.  141 

Mountain  Ballad Jan  Neruda.  143 

Saddle  my  Charger Eliska  Krasnohorska.  145 

The  Spinning  Girl Eliska  Krasnohorska.  146 

Forsaken Eliska  Krasnohorska.   147 

Smith's  Song Frant.  L.  Rieger.    149 

The  Strange  Guest Karel  Erben.  151 

Christmas  Eve Karel  Erben.   153 

The  Return F.  P.  Kopta.   159 

Legend  of  the  Lady  in  White F.  P.  Kopta.  162 

Simon  Abeles F.  P.  Kopta.  169 

Legend  of  the  Stone  Maiden F.  P.  Kopta.  171. 

A  Jewish  Legend  of  Prague F.  P.  Kopta.  174 

Jan  Amos  Komensky F.  P.  Kopta.  177 

The  Body  and  the  Soul F.  P.  Kopta.  179 

The  Master  Work F.  P.  Kopta.  181 


BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 


"  BOHEMIA." 

Bohemia!  land  of  far  renown, 

Well  known  in  the  days  of  old, 
From  out  thy  villages  and  towns 

Came  forth  thy  stalwart  sons  and  bold, 
To  fight  for  freedom,  and  for  God, 

Not  caring  if  they  bled  or  died, 
If  they  won  liberty  to  laud 

God  on  their  native  mountain  side. 

Bohemia!  that  so  many  years 

Sent  out  the  learned  of  the  earth; 
Bohemia,  that  with  many  tears 

Passed  through  the  Scripture's  second  birth; 
Thy  children,  now  in  history's  page, 

llead  thy  loved  name,  with  beating  heart. 
In  vain  thy  enemies  they  rage, 

They  cannot  dim  thy  glorious  part. 

Bohemia!  from  thy  mountains  wild, 

God  called  His  martyrs  for  the  truth, 
Fiery  Jerome  and  Huss  the  mild, 

Here  wandered  in  their  days  of  youth. 
Here  Zizka,  with  undaunted  face, 

Though  old  and  blind,  thy  warrior  son, 
Left  traces  one  cannot  efface 

Until  with  history  one  is  done. 

Bohemia!  there  is  not  an  art 

In  which  thy  sons  have  not  excelled; 

Thy  wares  were  sold  in  every  mart, 
And  pruisu  i'rpuj  enemies  compelled. 


BOlIltiflAN  LEGENDS. 

Now  Brozik,  with  a  painter's  skill, 

From  history  has  awaked  the  dead. 
Bohemia,  that  has  great  men  still. 

Nor  are  thy  days  of  glory  fled. 

Thy  poets,  too,  have  sung  thy  praise, 

In  verses  that  shall  never  die. 
In  many  lands  one  hears  the  lays 

From  Dvorak,  like  a  homeward  sigh. 
Palacky,  with  a  lover's  zeal, 

Has  writ  thy  history  great  in  fame. 
Tomek  has  made  us  know  and  feel, 

Though  changed,  that  Prague  is  still  the  same. 

Brave  land,  so  crushed  that  still  can  live 

And  teach  thy  sons  the  way  to  fame; 
Strong  land  that  still  has  strength  to  give 

Men  that  no  enemy  can  tame. 
Thy  sons  have  wandered  far  and  wide; 

One  finds  them  scattered  in  all  lands — - 
In  forests  where  the  black  bear  hide, 

And  amidst  Africa's  burning  sands. 

Bohemia!  thou  hast  been  my  home, 

And  I  will  sing  thy  praises  still. 
Wherever  'tis  my  fate  to  roam 

No  other  land  thy  place  shall  fill. 
Memory  shall  wander  back  at  will 

Amidst  thy  forests  and  thy  fields, 
And  I  shall  see  each  well-known  hill, 

And  listen  to  the  echo's  peals. 

Bohemia!  be  thou  blest  of  God — 

May  He  uphold  thee  in  His  strength; 
May  all  thy  children  learn  to  laud 

Their  father's  God,  throughout  thy  length. 
Forget  not  how  your  fathers  fought — 

For  what  they  lived — for  what  they  died; 
Remember  what  your  fathers  taught, 

And  hold  to  it  whate'er  betide. 


JOUK  HUBS. 


JOHN  HUSS. 

Oh,  mother  earth,  this  son  of  thine 

WHS  worthy  of  the  highest  place, 
And  though  his  ashes  in  the  Rhine 

Were  thrown,  he  lives  still  in  his  race. 
A  dauntless  soul  that  spoke  the  truth, 

When  all  the  world  in  darkness  slept; 
Bohemia's  martyred  son  in  sooth 

Blanched  not,  though  friends  around  him  wept. 

Whom  should  I  fear?     The  Emperor's  pass 

Promises  liberty  and  peace." 
But  still  his  friends  said:  "  Alas! 

We  much  misgive  us  of  that  peace." 
Whom  should  I  fear  then?     Those  who  kill 

The  body,  but  have  no  more  power 
Over  the  soul  that  triumphs  still, 

And  conquers  in  the  dying  hour?" 

Nay,  weep  not,  I  must  go  from  hence, 
'  I  must  speak  out  the  words  of  God; 
I  must  make  out  my  own  defenpe, 

And  prove  it  by  the  word  of  God; 
I  will  come  back  without  the  blot 

Of  heresy  upon  my  name; 
Then  blessed,  forsooth,  will  be  my  lot, 

And  great  indeed  Bohemia's  fame." 

He  went  in  faith — he  went  in  hope — 

And  prison  walls,  and  dungeon  cell, 
And  torture  of  the  chain  and  rope, 

Were  his  in  that  far  land  as  well. 
They  would  not  listen  to  his  speech; 

Unheard,  he  was  condemned  to  3ie. 
In  vain  he  cried,  "I  do  beseech — 

Oh,  listen  to  me  ere  I  die." 


BOHEMIAN  LKGMD& 

Worn  down  by  prison  and  by  pain, 

Denied  a  counsellor  for  his  cause, 
He  called  on  God  to  help  again 

His  servant  in  the  general  pause. 
He  was  condemned,  they  listened  not 

To  words  of  his,  however  plain. 
What  cared  those  priests  for  truth?  I  wot 

They  scorned  him  in  their  proud  disdain. 

They  placed  the  cap  upon  his  brow, 

Painted  with  devils  strange  and  wild, 
And  tortured  him — yes,  even  now — 

With  gibe  and  curse,  at  which  he  smiled. 
With  eyes  upturned  he  prayed  to  God, 

Till  his  brave  voice  was  hushed  for  aye. 
No  greater  martyr  fled  to  God, 

Than  he  they  burnt  upon  that  day. 

They  burned  him — yes  that  spirit  high 

Was  borne  to  God,  by  fiery  wings; 
Praying  for  them  he  rose  on  high, 

Eeleased  from  all  these  worldly  things. 
He  has  no  statue  in  the  land 

Where  he  was  born,  and  loved  so  well; 
But  in  the  hearts  of  a  small  band, 

His  ever  living  memory  dwells. 

Oh,  mother  earth,  this  son  of  thine 

Was  worthy  of  the  highest  place. 
Oh,  yes,  Bohemia,  he  is  thine, 

Born  of  thy  own  heroic  race. 
Oh,  Christian  world,  he  too  is  thine, 

A  martyr  for  the  Christian  fail  IK 
Oil,  God  of  gods,  he  now  is  thine, 

Who  died  for  Thee,  and  in  Thy  faith. 


A  11VS81TS  BONG. 


A  HUSSITE  SONG. 

Attributed  to  John  Zizka. 
You  who  are  champions  of  God, 

And  of  his  law, 
Pray  Him  to  assist  you,  and  laud 

Him  and  His  law. 
So  shall  ye  conquer  through  God, 

And  be  victorious. 

Our  Lord  has  told  us  not  to  fear 

Those  who  can  kill 
The  body,  but  keep  Him  near, 

And  fight  with  will. 
Fight  valiantly  then  with  no  fear, 

And  make  strong  your  hearts. 

Christ  will  repay  thee  hundredfold— 

For  he  has  said, 

"  Who  dies  for  me,  and  in  my  fold, 
Is  happy  dead. 

For  him  shall  open  joys  untold—- 
And life  eternal." 

So  archers,  and  lancers,  and  all 

Ye  warlike  men; 
Hallebards,  and  ye  that  appall 

The  hearts  of  men; 
Bemember  all,  ye  warriors  tall, 

God's  loving  kindness. 

E'en  if  the  enemy  be  strong — 

Still  do  not  fear. 
Let  God's  word  be  your  battle  song, 

Know  He  is  near. 
Fly  not,  but  fight  the  battle  long, 

Better  death  than  flight. 


LEGENDS. 


In  the  old  time  they  used  to  say, 

"  With  a  good  Lord. 
The  expedition  would  make  way, 

And  with  his  Lord 
His  servant  would  be  great  one  day/' 

This  remember  all. 

Ye  wagoners,  and  fiery  youth, 

Think  of  your  souls. 
Risk  not  your  lives  for  things,  forsooth- 

For  wealth  untold. 
Fight  not  for  plunder,  but  the  truth, 

The  truth  of  your  God. 

Remember  the  words  of  command 

You  have  been  told. 
Obey  your  leader's  voice  and  hand, 

And  be  ye  bold. 
Keep  your  own  places  in  the  band, 

Without  disorder. 

Then  joyfully  call  out,  and  shout, 

The  enemy, 
With  God's  aid,  we  will  surely  rout 

Our  enemy. 
God  is  our  Lord,  be  that  our  shout, 

Kill,  kill,  no  quarter. 


TO 


*TO  THE  MEMORY 

OF  THE  FORTY  SEVEN   PATRIOTS  EXECUTED  AFTER  THE 
BATTLE   OF  BILA  HORA,    JUNE  21,  1G21. 

It  was  all  over  now,  all  over  now— 

The  battle  had  been  fought  and  sadly  lost, 

The  battle  of  the  Bila  Hora  lost; 

And  with  it  died  all  freedom  and  all  hope. 

From  henceforth  torture  and  the  hangman's  rope 

Should  rule,  united  with  the  Jesuit  power, 

To  make  the  poor  Bohemians  rue  the  hour 

They  dared  to  listen  to  the  Holy  Word; 

Or  gaze  upon  His  face,  whom  prophets  heard 

Pronounced  to  be  the  very  Son  of  God. 

Let  there  be  silence  now — or  those  who  laud, 

Fray  to  the  Virgin,  or  the  blessed  saints, 

Or  sink  in  torture,  till  the  body  faints, 

Broken  and  torn,  and  lets  the  soul  escape; 

Yea,  like  a  bird  caught  in  a  trap  escape. 

Ah  me,  that  year  of  sixteen  twenty-one, 

Saw  many  an  evil,  bloody  work  well  done; 

The  death  of  those  who  were  the  noblest  born — 

A  country  ruined,  and  a  land  forlorn, 

A  noble  people  made  a  tyrant's  slave, 

And  their  faith  hidden  in  a  martyr's  grave, 

While  priestly  darkness  filled  the  laud  like  night. 

It  was  all  over  now,  all  over  now — 
And  shred  and  torn,  the  poor  Bohemian  land 
Lay  down  to  die  amidst  the  conqueror's  baud, 
While  all  her  noblest  sons  were  culled  to  die; 
And  thanks  be  unto  God,  without  a  sigh 
They  left  this  world,  for  better  homes  on  high. 

*  From  a  chronicle  published  in  Amsterdam,  164.8.     Confiscated 
by  the  Austrian  government,  Juue  22,  ISltO. 


BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 

'Tis  said  the  Emperor  Ferdinand  had  qualms — 
Perhaps  he  knew  that  death  would  place  the  palms 
Of  martyrdom  upon  those  fearless  souls  and  true, 
Who  preferred  death  to  lives  of  bitter  rue; 
Howe'er  it  be,  he  passed  a  restless  night, 
Tossing  and  fuming  till  the  dawn  of  light, 
And  then  he  turned  him  to  his  ghostly  shade, 
Father  Lamormain,  as  one  half  afraid, 
And  questioned  him,  if  he  could  do  this  thing. 
"  Without  hurt  to  his  conscience,  or  a  sting 
Of  self-remorse,  he  could  condemn  to  die, 
These  men?  "    To  which  the  Jesuit  made  reply, 
"  He  was  the  king  and  could  do  as  he  willed; " 
And  so  he  signed  the  warrant,  his  mind  filled 
With  the  great  things  a  king  alone  can  do. 

It  was  the  twenty-first  of  June;  the  sun 

Hose  in  its  splendor,  shining  on  the  land,     . 
And  on  their  faces  who  would  soon  have  done 

AVith  earthly  things,  that  poor  devoted  band. 
Many  were  there  who  in  the  bygone  days 

Had  stood  before  the  throne  in  royal  state. 
Many  were  there  who  trod  in  learning's  ways, 

Whom  God  had  chosen  for  a  martyr's  fate. 
One  gazing  out  upon  the  rising  sun, 

Beheld  a  rainbow  shining  in  the<  sky, 
Called  to  his  brethren,  "  See  our  faith  hath  won 

A  sign  from  Heaven.    God  will  see  us  die, 
And  from  the  scaffold  we  will  go  to  Him, 

Who  is  alone,  the  only  Truth  and  Way." 
And  on  their  knees  they  fell  and  prayed  to  Him, 

Whom  they  should  see  this  very  blessed  day. 
'Tis  sad  to  think  they  could  not  even  pray 

In  peace,  but  pestered  by  the  Jesuit  band, 
Their  last  farewells,  they  could  not  even  say. 

And  this,  my  friends,  was  by  the  king's  command. 
At  length  the  cannons  from  the  Vysehrad 

Began  to  fire,  that  the  hour  was  near, 
And  meekly  praying  that  God's  staff  and  rod 

Might  be  their  stay,  they  bid  each  other  "cheer." 
Yea,  with  calm  voice,  they  said,  "Oh,  brothers  ours, 

Ye  enter  first  the  paradise  of  God, 
But  we  will  follow  in  a  few  more  hours. 

Oh,  tell  our  Father  that  His  name  \ve  laud." 


TO  THE  MEMORY.  9 

And  those  who  went  to  death  said,  "  Have  no  care; 

God's  holy  angels  will  be  sent  to  show 
Your  souls  the  way  to  God,  and  we  shall  wear 

The  wedding  garments  ere  the  sun  be  low." 
The  first  to  die,  had  been  a  mighty  lord, 

Joachim  Andreas    Slik,  count  of  Bazan. 
Ah,  me!  ah,  me!  that  fearless  soul  had  soared 

With  love  of  country,  and  the  Count  Paeon, 
As  patriot  and  heretic,  must  die — 

And  his  brave  hands  be  nailed  up  as  a  sign, 
That  henceforth  none  should  ever  question  why 

Their  ruler's  voice  came  from  across  the  Ehiue. 
He  gazed  upon  the  shining  sun  and  said, 

"Leave  me  in  peace"  (to  Jesuit  priests  that  came 
To  torture  his  brave  soul  before  it  fled), 

"  The  Sun  of  Righteousness  shall  rise  the  same, 
In  God's  good  time,  to  scatter  from  our  land 

The  shadows  of  this  world.     We  will  be  free." 
And  then  he  knelt  upon  the  wooden  stand 

And  prayed  to  God  that  every  one  could  see. 
And  it  is  said  a  radiance  not  its  own 

Shone  in  his  face,  as  there  he  knelt  to  pray; 
And  from  the  scaffold,  to  a  golden  throne, 

The  count  of  Pason  passed  this  summer  day. 
The  next  to  die  had  walked  in  learning's  ways — 

Vaclav  Budoec,   well-known  throughout  the  world 
For  learned  books,  that  sought  from  out  the  maze 

Of  darkness  still  God's  banner  to  unfurl. 
'Twas  he  who  said  with  voice  that  knew  no  fear, 

"  I'd  rather  die  than  see  my  country  die; 
And  ye  have  longed  so  for  our  butchery  here, 

I  fain  would  satisfy  you — see  me  die/' 
To  which  the  monks  replied,  "  ~\Ve  fain  would  show 

An  erring  soul  the  way  to  Heaven's  gate." 
Then  smilingly  he  told  them,  "  Is  that  so?  " 

Then  quickly  answer  ere  it  be  too  late. 
With  many  questions  from  the  Holy  Word, 

He  plied  their  ears,  unwilling  of  the  truth, 
And  when  they  could  not  answer,  "  I  have  heard 

That  ye  be  asses,  now  I  know  'tis  true." 
When  called  to  die  he  said,  "  Oh,  my  white  hair. 

What  honor  hath  God  had  in  store  for  thee? 


J  0  BOHEMIAN  LEG  ENDS. 

The  crown  of  martyrdom  ye  soon  shall  wear; 

An  endless  bliss  is  mine;  I  go  to  thee." 
Then,  kneeling  down,  lie  prayed  unto  his  God, 

Prayed  for  his  country,  and  for  those  who  sent 
His  spirit  to  that  kingdom  where  all  laud; 

And  bowing  down  his  head  to  God  he  went. 
The  next  to  die  was  Harant,  full  of  woe, 

Not  at  his  death,  but  that  the  priests  would  take 
His  children  in  their  care,  when  he  was  low, 

And  they  their  father's  faith  must  needs  forsake. 
Perhaps  the  saddest  sight  was  to  behold 

Poor  Kaplif,  with  his  crutches,  go  to  death; 
And  in  a  touching  story  we  are  told 

How  the  old  man  prepared  himself  for  death. 
The  pastor,  Rosacius,  who  scorned  to  live, 

And  see  his  brethren  die,  tells  how  he  went, 
And  found  him  in  his  cell  prepared  to  give 

With  radiant  joy  his  body  old  and  bent. 
"  Long  I  have  prayed  the  Lord,"  the  old  man  said, 

"  To  take  me  from  this  world  of  sorrow  sore. 
And  lo!  He  heard  me  not,  I  must  be  led 

To  feel  so'me  pangs  our  blessed  Saviour  bore. 
It  was  His  will  that  with  my  ninety  years 

I  should  go  from  the  scaffold  to  the  throne — • 
Leave  all  this  misery,  all  these  bitter  tears, 

And  be  at  rest  forever.     God  alone 
Knows  in  my  heart  I  have  no  sinful  thought, 

Nor  ever  had,  'gainst  the  dear  land  I  love. 
Dear  Master,  in  the  faith  that  you  have  taught, 

I  die,  and  we  shall  meet  above." 
And  as  he  stood,  and  waited  for  the  call, 

Upon  his  crutches,  with  his  white  head  bent 
In  prayer  for  the  souls  that  unappulled, 

AVith  fearless  faces,  to  the  scaffold  went. 
They  held  him  out  a  pardon;  "  Would  he  say 

That  he  had  erred,  and  thereby  save  his  life?" 
But  sternly  the  old  man  said,  "  Go  your  way, 

Ye  devilish  tempters,  that  but  seek  out  strife. 
Heaven  breaks  upon  my  view,  should  earth  awake 

One  vain  regret?     Nay,  I  am  glad  to  die 
A  martyr  for  my  land,  and  my  faith's  sake; 

Christ  will  reward  me;  'tis  to  Him  I  fly." 


TO  THE  MEMORY.  11 

Then  slowly  walking  to  the  fatal  block, 

The  brave  old  man  knelt  down  upon  the  floor. 
"Oh,  Lord,  my  God,  Thou  art  a  very  rock, 

In  times  of  trouble.     Christ,  be  thou  the  door 
Through  which  I  enter  on  the  life  divine." 

The  executioner  paused,  he  could  not  strike 
That  bowed  white  head,  although  the  given  sign 

Was  given  by  the  judges  all  alike. 
So  then  a  priest  came  np  and  said,  "  My   lord, 

In  your  own  way,  you  have  called  on  your  God — 
I  pray  you  raise  your  head  on  high,  my  lord. 

One  moment  more  and  you  are  with  your  God." 
Smiling,  he  raised  his  head,  and  it  was  so. 

Ah,  me!  ah,  me!  my  heart  is  sad  to  think 
Of  all  the  fearless  souls  that  were  laid  low, 

And  sometimes  as  I  pausing  stand  and  think, 
On  the  old  city  square,  I  seem  to  see 

The  scaffold  and  the  drummers  standing  round, 
And  the  vast  multitude  of  people  like  a  sea, 

Eising  now  here,  now  there,  with  a  dull  sound 
Of  cursing  on  the  scene  that  they  behold, 

And  prayers  for  the  ones  about  to  die, 
And  curses  on  the  soldiers  over  bold, 

That  only  laughed  to  hear  the  people  sigh. 
And  with  a  start  I  wake  to  see  the  square, 

Silent  and  lonely  in  the  midday  sun. 
No  matter,  honor  be  to  those  who  dare 

Die  unto  God,  although  their  days  be  done. 
For  their  remembrance,  shall  like  scattered  seed, 

Bloom  into  flowers  in  some  far-off  day, 
And  they  with  joy  unutterable  shall  lead 

Their  followers  unto  Him  who  is  the  way. 
And  He  with  gracious  voice  shall  say:  "  Well  done, 

Ye  faithful  servants,  enter  in  the  joy, 
That  was  prepared  for  you  before  the  sun; 

Enter  the  peace  now  that  knows  no  alloy." 


12  BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 


KRYSPEK'S   GOBLET. 

In  Kralovice,      two  hundred  years,* 

The  family  of  Kryspek    sleep. 
Within  the  family  vault  they  lie, 

And  none  can  wake  their  slumbers  deep. 
Oh,  listen  to  their  banquet  dread, 
For  sure  upon  this  earth  'tis  said, 

There  never  was  a  sadder  meal; 

Come  listen  to  their  bitter  weal. 

When  the  Bila  Hora  battle, 

Spite  of  all  valor  had  been  lost, 
And  the  poor  Bohemian  country 

Had  to  give  itself  up  for  lost, 
Then  the  hangman's  business  flourished, 
And  the  ground  with  blood  was  nourished; 

From  the  battle  now  lost  for  aye, 

Came  Kryspek's    men,  one  sad  day. 

Long  before  the  war  now  raging, 

Jitka's  beauty  had  minstrels  sung. 
Every  virtue  had  the  maiden, 

And  praised  she  was  by  every  tongue. 
Seventeen  summers  had  she  wandered 
In  the  castle  hall,  and  pondered, 

While  the  striplings  from  far  and  wide, 

In  useless  longing  for  her  sighed. 

From  far  and  wide  they  came  to  woo — 

The  Castle  Kacerov  was  sought 
By  noblest  youths,  who  wished  to  wed 

The  beauteous  maiden,  so  well  taught. 

*NOTE. — The  bodies  of  the  Kryspek  family,  for  some  reason 
or  other  were  embalmed;  one  can  see  them  in  the  castle  in 
Kralovice. 


KRYSPEK'S  GOBLET.  13 

But  only  one,  a  noble  youth — 

Bores,  whose  words  were  words  of  truth, 

Found  favor  in  the  maiden's  sight; 

He  was  a  brave  and  goodly  knight. 

The  marriage  day  was  fixed  and  came — 
It  should  have  been  their  wedding  eve, 

When  all  at  once  the  trumpet's  sound 
Called  on  the  warrior  youths  to  leave 

These  pleasures,  and  to  go  to  war — 

The  enemy  was  at  the  door. 

Brave  Bores,  with  his  soldiers  few, 
Joined  Slik,  and  Budoec   "  The  True." 

The  enemy  was  stronger  far— 

The  poor  Bohemians  lost  the  day; 
Their  homes  were  sacked,  their  lives  were  lost, 

The  noblest  did  the  conquerors  slay. 
But  midst  it  all  the  Kryspek  race, 
Lived  all  forgotten  on  their  place; 

They  even  dared  to  dream  that  they 

Were  stricken  from  the  list  away. 

For  vengeance  with  a  bloody  sword 

Struck  down  the  noblest  of  the  laud; 
And  as  the  blow  fell  not,  they  thought 

They  had  been  pardoned  out  of  hand. 
One  evening  as  the  Vesper  rang, 
Passed  through  the  gate,  with  marshal  clang 

The  noble  Bores,  wild  to  see 

His  Jitka,  wife  that  was  to  be. 

To-morrow  " — went  from  lip  to  lip — 

"  To-morrow  is  the  wedding  day; 

To-morrow — let  us  hope  no  storm 
Of  grief,  or  sorrow,  dim  the  day." 

All  things  were  ready  for  the  feast, 

To-morrow  they  would  fetch  the  priest. 
Well  pleased  they  sat  them  down  to  sup, 
By  generous  cheer  and  brimming  cup. 


14  BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 

The  clock  struck  ten,  they  were  about 

To  drink  the  bride  and  bridegroom's  health; 

They  wished  them  joy  and  a  long  life — 
They  wished  them  happiness  and  wealth, 

When  suddenly  a  trumpet's  call, 

From  herald  sent,  fell  like  a  pall, 

And  changed  their  mirth  to  silence  dread. 

"  The  herald  seeks  my  lord,"  was  said. 

With  strange  misgiving  went  the  lord, 
To  meet  the  stranger  in  the  hull; 

All  joy  from  out  his  heart  had  fled, 
He  dreaded  news  that  would  appall. 

But  when  he  saw  the  herald's  face, 

And  heard  the  doom  against  his  race, 
He  knew  that  all  his  fears  were  true, 
The  conqueror's  heart  no  mercy  knew. 

Pale  like  a  corpse,  he  back  returned — 

Like  one  who  from  the  grave  comes  back — 

And  slowly  said,  with  choking  voice: 

"  Our  brothers  died  upon  the  rack! 

The  hour  of  Kryspek  doom  is  near — 

Our  glory  faded — life  made  drear. 
Our  mildest  punishment,  to  roam, 
Outcasts  from  country,  and  from  home." 

Then  bidding  all  the  servants  leave 
The  room,  until  the  dawn  of  day, 

That  not  a  soul  should  enter  in, 

Nor  rouse  their  slumber  till  the  day. 
"  For  if  we  want  you,  we  will  ring; 

Yea,  iu  the  morning,  we  will  ring." 
And  when  the  servants  left  the  hall, 
He  shut  the  door,  and  spake  to  all: 

"  What  is  to  lose,  when  land  is  lost? 

Who  loses  honor,  loseth  life. 
What  joy  shall  then  my  grandchild  know, 

In  poverty  and  daily  strife? 
If  such  a  desperate  fate  is  ours, 
To  languish  but  a  few  more  hours — 

To  see  our  country  die,  and  then 

To  die,  nay,  let  us  now  be  men. 


KR  YftPEK'X  G OIJ LET.  15 

"  Here,  where  my  childhood's  days  were  spent; 

Here,  where  my  father's  bones  were  laid; 
Whore  I  in  manhood's  strength  have  lived, 

And  wed  your  mother,  beauteous  maid; 
Where  you  were  born,  my  children  dear; 
And  loved,  and  honored,  far  and  near, 

We  must  forsake,  and  wander  far 

In  banishment,  oh  evil  star! 

"  Our  mildest  punishment  to  roam — 

Made  beggars  in  an  evil  time, 
Banished  from  everything  we  love- — 

Made  butts  for  every  idle  rhyme." 
Then  dropping  poison  in  his  glass, 
He  smiling  drank,  and  said,  "  Alas, 

That  I  should  ask,  '  Who  goes  to  death?  '" 
"  We  all/'  they  answered  with  one  breath. 

"  We  all,"  they  answered  with  one  breath. 

And  merrily  the  goblet  went: 
From  hand  to  hand  they  passed  it  on, 

And  thirteen  drank  as  on  it  went. 
Father  and  mother,  child  and  youth, 
The  bride,  and  bridegroom,  all,  forsooth, 

Drank  gladly  of  the  deadly  wine. 

They  praised  the  cup,  they  praised  the  wine. 

Twelve  o'clock  struck;  they  heard  the  bell 

Call  out  to  prayer  in  the  night; 
They  prayed  to  God  in  prayers  low, 

To  help  them  in  the  deadly  fight. 
One  whispered,  then  his  voice  was  still. 
Another  fell,  against  his  will, 

But  seven  lived — the  light  burnt  low, 

Then  out  it  went — they  all  lay  low. 

So  Kryspek  and  his  family  died, 

United  in  a  common  death; 
The  bride  and  bridegroom,  hand  in  hand, 

Sat  by  each  other  cold  in  death. 
Hand  clasped  in  hand,  around  the  board, 
They  found  them,  but  their  souls  had  soared 

Beyond  their  tyrant's  little  might, 

Into  the  everlasting  light. 


16  BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 


DALIBOK. 

A  Bohemian  legend  of  the  fifteenth  century. 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  this  haste, 

And  stir,  within  the  castle  gate? 
What  means  these  servants,  standing  pale, 

These  men-at-arms  that  silent  wait? 
And  wherefore  are  these  faggots  piled, 

To  burn  a  sinner,  or  a  saint? 
Think  you  we  have  forgotten  Huss — 

Dream  you  Bohemian  hearts  are  faint? 

"  Look,  look,  upon  the  winding  road 

Come  men-at-arms  in  goodly  tale; 
And  down  the  mountain  side  they  come, 

Come  streaming  in  from  every  vale. 
What  is  the  meaning  of  all  this, 

And  wherefore  are  we  called  this  day? 
Lord  Ualibor,  our  mighty  lord, 

It  seems,  has  something  new  to  say. 

"  For  whom  these  faggots?    Say  perchance, 

To  burn  our  Huss'  judges  on? 
Ah,  that  would  be  a  royal  day — 

Pile  on,  you  fellows,  quick,  pile  on." 
"  Hush!  hush!"  the  heralds  trumpet  loud, 
"  Our  lord  stands  on  the  castle  wall; 
A  nobler  lord  was  never  born, 

Shout  loud,  you  fellows  by  the  wall." 

And  when  at  length  a  silence  fell, 

The  noble  lord  stood  forth  and  spake: 
"  Bring  now  the  family  records  old, 

And  all  the  things  that  pride  awake; 


I). \LTBOn.  17 

Bring  forth  the  quartering^  painted  fine, 

The  emblems  of  rny  noble  race, 
And  throw  them  on  that  burning  pile; 

There  let  them  burn  before  my  face." 

Silent  he  stood,  with  sad,  stern  face, 

And  watched  the  flames  that  rose  on  high. 
*•'  Here  I  lay  low  all  worldly  pride, 

I  longing  but  for  my  land  to  die. 
Is  any  here  that  I  have  wronged, 

Or  burdened  in  my  lordly  right, 
I  beg  him  to  forgive  me  now — 

Let  me  go  blameless  in  the  fight/' 

The  multitude  in  silence  stood; 

They  watched  the  mighty  flames  rise  high. 
Then  all  at  once  their  lord's  voice  said: 
"  Oh,  brothers  mine,  now  let  us  die; 
Come,  let  us  die  for  this  our  land, 

Down-trodden  'neath  the  German  yoke; 
Come,  let  us  die  for  this  our  faith." 

Shouts  drown  his  voice  as  thus  he  spoke. 

"  No  earthly  flag,  but  this  the  Chalice, 

Shall  lead  us  on,  in  battle's  roar; 
I  am  no  noble,  but  a  friend 

Whose  right  it  is  to  go  before. 
Take  horses,  weapons,  to  your  fill — 

Come,  let  us  march  against  the  foe. 
Long  live  Bohemia,  our  dear  land, 

God's  praise  we'll  sing  as  forth  we  go." 

At  these  brave  words  a  deaf'ning  shout 

Came  from  that  multitude  of  men: 
"  Long  live  our  brother  Dalibor, 

The  leader  of  Bohemian  men." 
And  soon  they  were  upon  the  plain, 

And  fearless  met  the  angry  foe. 
God  gave  the  victory  to  their  hands; 

Their  enemies  were  stricken  low. 

The  banner  with  the  Chalice  cup 
Was  crowned  with  many  a  laurel  bough, 

And  day  by  day  their  numbers  grew. 
The  Lord  of  battles,  He  knows  how 


18  BOHKMlAN  LEGENDS. 

That  the  Bohemian  nation  rose, 

Without  a  fear,  to  do  His  will; 
They  were  content  for  Him  to  die, 

And  for  their  land  their  blood  to  spill. 

The  royalists  were  beaten  hard; 

They  fled  before  the  Hussite  band. 
Once  more  one  heard  the  Hussite  song 

Resound  through  the  Bohemian  land. 
One  morning  in  the  distant  west 

A  warrior  came,  of  features  cold; 
He  begged  to  be  allowed  to  fight; 

He  said  he  was  a  warrior  bold. 

He  spake  they  "  were  a  godless  set," 

Those  royalists  from  where  he  came, 
And  offered  to  show  Dalibor 

A  way  to  victory,  and  to  fame. 
They  were  to  steal  away  at  night 

Along  a  path  that  he  would  show; 
Thus  easily  the  royal  band 

They  could  strike  down  with  one  quick  blow. 

Alas!  alas!  that  Dalibor 

Did  listen  to  that  lying  tongue; 
Ah  me!  he  led  them  all  to  death, 

And  dungeon  cell,  as  bards  have  sung; 
And  Dalibor  was  led  in  chains, 

And  shut  in  Hradcan's  dismal  tower. 
Oft  by  the  loophole  he  would  sit, 

Unconscious  of  the  passing  hour. 

One  day  he  said,  "  Oh,  jailer  mine, 

Thou  seest  I  will  soon  be  dead; 
I  pray  thee  by  thy   father's  ghost, 

I  pray  thee  by  thy  blessed  dead; 
Oh,  give  me  but  a  violin, 

That  I  may  ease  my  breaking  heart. 
It  cannot  harm  thee,  jailer  mine, 

And  it  will  soothe  my  bitter  part." 

The  jailer  was  a  kindly  man, 
He  let  the  prisoner  have  his  way; 

And  all  night  long,  poor  Dalibor  " 
Upon  his  instrument  diu  play. 


DAL  I  no  R.  19 

'Tis  said,  he  played  with  wondrous  skill; 

From  far  and  wide  the  people  came; 
They  used  to  stand  by  Hradcan's  walls, 

And  speak  of  Dalibor  and  fame. 

They  listened,  and  they  wept  aloud; 

They  listened,  and  their  blood  would  boil; 
For  in  that  simple  song  they  heard 

The  anthem  of  their  native  soil. 
The  mountains  caught  it  wailing  back, 

A  song  so  strange,  they  shuddering  heard; 
The  river  took  it,  bore  it  back, 

With  a  strange  murmur  that  allured. 

Each  day  the  crowd  became  more  dense, 

To  listen  to  that  music  wild; 
They  spake  of  country,  and  of  God — 

They  said  the  man  was  good  and  rnild. 
One  day  King  Ladislav  rode  by; 

He  eyed  them  with  a  cruel  look, 
And  when  at  length  the  cause  he  knew, 

With  rage  and  wrath  he  fairly  shook. 

He  ordered  that  the  violin 

Should  broken  be  on  dungeon  wall, 
And  laughingly  he  went  next  day, 

And  sneering  said,  "  What  can  befall? " 
But  lo!  beneath  dark  Hradcan's   wall 

The  people  stand,  and  listening  hear 
The  anthem  of  their  native  land, 

Played  by  a  hand  that  knows  no  fear. 

Then,  white  with  rage,  the  king  said,  "  Kill 

The  man  that  dares  to  play  that  lay." 
And  soon  the  bloody  head  was  seen — 

But  still  the  hand  unseen  did  play. 
The  people,  with  a  shuddering  dread, 

Knocked  down  the  guards,  and  onward  rushed; 
They  only  found  the  broken  wood — 

The  body,  from  which  the  blood  gushed. 


BOHEMIA  N  L  EG  ENDS. 

But  still  the  hand  unseen  doth  play. 

The  anthem  of  their  native  land. 
And  even  now  by  HradSan's  walls, 

Some  say,  that  still  a  magic  hand 
Is  heard  to  play,  when  patriots  high 

Beneath  the  ramparts  sadly  stray. 
'Tis  said,  that  those  who  once  have  heard 

Can  ne'er  forget  that  haunting  lay. 


THE  ENCHANTED  MAID. 


THE    ENCHANTED   MAID. 

A  Bohemian  legend  of  the  fifteenth  century. 

The  forest  leaves  were  bright  and  green, 

And  soft  the  zephyr  blew. 
The  mountain  peaks  were  lost  to  view, 

In  clouds  of  pearly  gray. 
With  happy  steps  two  Checkish  boys 
"Went  singing  of  their  many  joys, 

As  through  the  wood  they  went. 
They  might  have  been  two  happy  guests 

Upon  a  wedding  bent. 

They  sang  of  love,  they  sang  of  woe, 

With  voices  high  and  sweet; 
And  oft  they  sang,  that  life  is  fleet, 

And  love  as  strong  as  death. 
At  length  the  eldest  one  said,  "Wait! 
Here  is  a  splendid  tree  that  fate 

Has  thrown  into  our  way. 
We'll  cut  it  down  and  make  ourselves 

Two  harps  this  sunny  day." 

They  set  about  to  cut  that  tree, 

With  boyish  laughter  wild. 
And  oft  they  sang,  and  oft  they  smiled, 

As  happily  they  plied. 
But  when  they  reached  the  inmost  heart, 
They  both  fell  back  as  though  a  dart 

Had  struck  their  own  young  life, 
For  there  a  beauteous  maiden  stood 

And  begged  of  them  her  life. 


5  BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 

But  even  as  the  maiden  spoke, 

She  shivered  and  turned  pale, 
And  then  she  sank  with  a  great  wtiil 

Upon  the  emerald  grass. 
"  'Tis  not  your  fault,  oh,  happy  boys, 
So  full  of  life  and  earthly  joys, 

That  takes  me  from  this  earth. 
My  mother  did  enchant  me  so 

To  keep  me  from  all  mirth. 


I  had  a  lover  fair  like  you, 

And  often  did  we  meet, 
Ah,  me!  the  hours  passed  so  fleet, 

And  we  were  very  young. 
My  mother,  with  her  evil  eye, 
She  soon  found  out  the  reason  why 

I  would  not  do  her  will, 
And  gather  'neath  the  moon's  bright  beam 

The  plants  that  work  out  ill. 


And  so,  she  turned  me  to  a  tree, 

While  I  stood  with  my  love. 
I  pray  you,  youths,  by  Him  above, 

To  grant  me  but  one  boon — 
Make  harps  from  out  this  fallen  tree, 
And  go  and  tell  the  world  of  me — 

And  for  my  mother  play. 
Oh,  play  and  sing  of  all  my  woe, 

That  she  may  rue  her  day." 


And  so  she  died,  that  maiden  fair, 

Upon  the  emerald  grass; 
And  the  two  youths  took  up  the  lass, 

And  laid  her  in  the  sod. 
Then  sadly  they  obeyed  her  will, 
And  made  them  harps  with  Checkish  skill, 

To  touch  her  mother's  heart. 
Ah,  melancholy  was  the  wail 

Of  their  new-fashioned  harp. 


THE  ENCI1ANTKD  MAW. 

Before  her  mother's  house  they  stopped, 

And  struck  a  solemn  strain. 
It  almost  seemed  a  soul  in  pain, 

That  sang  from  out  their  harps: 
"Oh,  brave  young  men,  I  bid  you  go — 
Your  song,  it  is  too  full  of  woe, 

Like  some  poor  soul  in  pain; 
And  still  it  strikes  me  that  I  know 

That  tearful  song  again/' 

The  youths,  they  would  not  leave  her  side; 

They  played  with  wilder  skill; 
They  sang,  "  Oh,  mother,  take  thy  fill 

Of  malediction  now." 
And  never  from  her  human  ears 
Was  hushed  that  song  so  full  of  fears 

Until  she  dying  lay. 
And  I  have  heard  that  devils  came 

And  took  her  soul  away. 


BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 


THE  BRIDE  OF  HEAVEN. 

A    BOHEMIA^   BALLAD. 

When  I  used  to  go  and  see  thee, 
Stand  beneath  thy  window  sill, 

See,  I  was  quite  sure,  beloved  one, 
That  we  were  one  heart,  one  will. 

Never  did  I  think,  beloved  one, 
We  must  part,  I  loving  still. 

And  the  last  time  that  I  saw  thee 
Weaving  a  fair  myrtle  wreath, 

I  sat  watching,  never  thinking 
Why  you  did  not  bind  the  leaf. 

Now  I  pi-ay  thee,  loved  one,  tell  me, 
Why  unfinished  is  the  wreath? 

I  was  thinking,  thinking  sadly — 
Thinking  as  I  think  to-day, 

That  we  cannot  wed,  beloved  one, 
That  our  farewell  we  must  say; 

So  I  left  the  wreath  unfinished, 
Left  unfinished  to  this  day. 

They  would  force  me  to  be  married 
To  a  youth  I  cannot  love; 

They  would  drag  me  to  the  altar, 
Sacrifice  me  like  a  dove; 

They  would  force  me  to  be  wedded 
To  a  lad  I  cannot  love. 

They  would  force  me  to  be  married, 
Though  I  loath  his  very  sight. 

Go  get  ready  for  the  wedding — 
It  will  be  a  merry  sight. 

Go  prepare  the  wedding  banquet, 
While  I  dress  my  hair  aright. 


THE  BRIDE  OF  RE  A  YEN. 

"Yes,  they  shall  prepare  the  wedding, 

In  the  convent  far  away. 
Come,  oh  bridesmaids,  cut  my  long  locks, 

Let  me  sup  with  you  to-day. 
Gladly  in  your  silent  convent, 
I  will  give  my  hand  away. 

"  Come  and  see  me,  oh  beloved- 
Come  and  hear  me  when  I  sing, 

Till  that  fatal  day,  beloved, 

When  the  black  robe  they  will  fling 

Bound  about  my  weary  shoulders — 
On  my  hand  the  wedding  ring. 

"  They  will  take  my  white  dress  from  me, 
Dress  me  in  the  robe  of  pain; 

And  the  image  of  my  bridegroom 
Now  must  be  my  only  gain. 

Vanish  from  my  sight,  beloved  one, 
We  must  never  meet  again. 

"  The  crucifix  is  by  my  side, 

The  rosary  in  my  hand, 
I  raise  my  weary  eyes  to  Him, 

Lord  of  that  heavenly  band. 
Oh,  glorious  bridegroom,  I  am  yours, 

The  wedding  ring  is  on  my  h.ind. 

"  Beyond  the  convent's  silent  walls, 

Oh,  never  more  shall  I  stray, 
No  earthly  voice  shall  haunt  ma  more, 

When  I  humbly  kneel  to  pray. 
Heaven's  love  will  fill  my  broken  heart, 

The  world  will  have  passed  away. 

r'A  vaunt  from  ni3,  beloved  of  earth, 

My  bridegroom  is  in  the  sky; 
Djpart  from  mo,  betrothed  on  earth, 

To  Heaven  I  fain  would  fly; 
Oh.  holy  bridegroom,  fill  my  heart 

With  your  image  till  I  die. 


BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 

"  Oh,  vain  in.lesd,  the  love  of  earth, 
To  still  my  poor  heart's  aching. 

Oome  to  me,  oh,  thoti  crucificed, 
Ami  keep  my  heart  from  breaking; 

Oh,  take  me,  Lord,  unto  Thyself, 
I,  my  vain  life  forsaking." 

She  knelt  before    the  crucifix, 

She  called  on    her  lover  high. 
"  Oh,  loved  of  Q-od,    oh,  bridegroom    mine, 

Be  my  defense  till  I  die. 
My  faint  heart  yearns  to  see  thy  face, 
And  thy  glory  up  on  high/' 

The  heavenly  bridegroom  heard  her  voice, 
He  knew, her  heart  was  broken. 

He  said,  "  Thy  prayer  is  heard,  my  bride, 
This  is  the  promised  token." 

A  rapture  came  within  her  heart — 
Men  said  she  died  heartbroken. 


JOHN,  SACRIFICED  JOHN. 


JOHN,  SACRIFICED   JOHN. 

AN   OLD   BOHEMIAN   LEGEND. 

Gather  round  me,  little  laddies, 

And  ye  maidens  small; 
Listen  to  my  voice  and  lyre; 

^Listen,  children  all. 
"With  attention  hear  my  ballad, 

Till  the  tale  he  done; 
Listen — 'tis  a  wondrous  story — 

Till  my  song  be  done. 

In  a  poor  Bohemian  village, 

Not  far  from  the  way, 
Even  now  you  see  an  old  well, 

Honored  till  this  day. 
Deep  within  it  lies  a  church  bell, 

Hid  from  mortal  eyes; 
Never  more  its  voice  shall  ringing 

Bid  us  praise  the  skies. 

Only  once  in  the  far  ages 

Did  they  hear  its  voice, 
When  an  old  religious  woman 

Went  there  once  by  choice. 
Dipping  in  its  cold,  clear  bosom 

Linen  she  h;td  spun, 
Half  drew  up  the  bell  that  lay  there, 

Hid  from  light  and  sun. 

Filled  with  horror,  she  fell  fainting 

By  the  old  well's  side, 
And  her  weak  hands  left  their  holding, 

And  the  bell  did  slide, 


28  BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 

With  a  terrible  resounding, 

That  shook  hill  and  dale, 
Back  into  the  old  well's  darkness, 

While  its  voice  did  wail: 
"  John,  John,  sacrificed  John." 

PART    SECOND. 

With  a  dark  scowl  on  his  forehead, 

Homeward  rides  the  Checkish  lord. 
By  his  side,  the  staghounds  leading, 

Follows  John,  page  to  my  lord. 
Like  a  thundercloud  his  forehead, 

And  his  eyes  with  anger  burn; 
For  his  dearest  clog  is  missing, 

And  he  knows  not  where  to  turn. 

Three  whole  days  they  have  been  searching 

Wood,  and  field,  and  everywhere. 
Useless  is  their  toil  and  seeking, 

And  their  looking  everywhere. 
Sadly,  with  their  faces  troubled, 

Back  they  turn  them  to  their  home, 
While  their  lord  with  bosom  swelling, 

Sighs,  "My  dog,  where  do  you  roam?" 

On  the  road  there  stands  a  granny, 

Leaning  on  her  crutches  two. 
See!  her  head  is  like  an  owl's  head, 

And  she  has  but  one  eye,  too; 
Humpbacked,  all  her  face  a  wrinkle — 

And  her  hands  but  skin  and  bone; 
Voice — why  like  a  rook  in  cawing 

Is  the  harsh  and  gutteral  tone. 

"  Stop  your  charger!  Stop  your  people! 

Listen  to  my^ words,  I  say. 
Wherefore  do  you  search  the  forests 

And  the  meadows  all  the  day? 
I  can  tell  you  of  your  staghound, 

Of  the  fleet  one  that  you  love, 
But  I  must  be  paid  to  do  it; 

I  am  seeking  gain — not  love. 


JOHN,  SACRIFICED  JOHN. 

If  you  give  me  your  page,  Johnny, 

Hound  is  yours,  to-morrow  morn. 
Why  I  want  him?    Oh,  a  witch  knows, 

Human  blood  makes  flesh  newborn. 
In  the  stars  1  see  it  written, 

Johnny's  blood  can  make  me  young. 
Human  blood  can  make  old  woman 

Once  more  beautiful  and  young." 

At  these  words  the  wretched  stripling 

Felt  his  heart  turn  to  a  stone. 
Between  fears  and  hopes  he  trembles, 

Kneels  upon  the  grass  alone. 
Mercy,  mercy,  0  loved  master; 

Listen  to  my  voice,  I  pray, 
And  the  life  of  a  true  servant, 

Give  not  for  a  dog  away." 

But  his  master,  only  heeding 

The  strong  voice  within  his  heart, 
Not  the  pale  and  tear-stained  features, 

Hardened  unto  him  his  heart. 
Bring  the  staghound — bring  him,  granny, 

When  the  day  begins  to  break. 
By  my  faith — without  a  question — 

Then  my  Johnny  you  can  take." 

PART  THIRD. 

When  the  day  dawned,  at  the  gateway 

Stood  the  foul  witch,  with  the  hound. 
And  Johnny,  looking  from  the  casement, 

Saw  his  death,  and  not  the  hound. 
Mercy,  mercy,  oh  my  master! 

Show  rne  mercy — let  me  live — 
Give  me  not  to  the  foul  sorceress; 

Let  me  see  the  sun  and  live." 

But  his  master,  in  his  rapture. 
Deaf  is  to  the  stripling's  voice. 

Witch  and  dog  he  clasps  together — 
Orders  then  a  banquet  choice. 


30  BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 

When  the  evening  shadows  lengthen, 
Bound  with  chains  they  bring  the  youth. 

In  a  car,  with  dragon  horses, 

Lost  is  witch  and  youth,  forsooth. 

PART     FOURTH. 

Hardly  five  weeks  was  the  staghound 

Once  more  with  his  lord, 
When  the  dearly  bought  one  sickened. 

Died  before  his  lord; 
Then  his  master,  in  a  frenzy, 

Tore  his  hair  in  woe. 
But  the  dog  lay  dead  for  all  that — 

John  was  lying  low. 

When  at  length  his  pain  was  duller, 

And  some  days  had  passed, 
Human  feeling  woke  within  him, 

And  he  felt  at  last 
What  a  sin  he  had  committed 

AVhen  he  gave  the  lad 
To  the  witch;  and  lone  and  haunted, 

Sat  lie  still  and  sad. 

"  Johnny — poor  devoted  Johnny," 

Often  did  he  say, 
"  To  a  fearful  death  I  gave 'you, 

On  an  evil  day. 
Oh,  nod  to  me  from  thy  heaven, 

That  I  am  forgiven. 
Oh,  show  mercy  to  me,  Johnny, 
Say  I  am  forgiven." 

After  that  he  built  a  chapel, 

Not  far  from  the  well; 
And  a  wooden  tower  also, 

With  a  silver  bell— 
With  a  bell  of  purest  silver 

They  were  bid  to  toll    - 
Every  day,  in  rain  and  sunshine, 

For  poor  Johnny's  soul. 


JOHN,  SACRIFICED  JOHN.  3i 

When  they  first  began  their  tolling 

For  the  poor  lad's  soul, 
Back  they  started  in  wild  horror, 

Says  the  legend  old. 
For  it  was  no  bell  of  silver, 

But  a  human  cry, 
Echoing  in  their  ears  bewildered, 

Like  a  human  sigh: 
John,  John,  sacrificed  John." 

PART   FIFTH. 

And  the  lord  of  Kozojedy 

Hearing,  turned  to  stone. 
Then  he  tore  his  rich  robes  from  him, 

While  his  heart  did  groan. 
Bring  me  now  the  hair-cloth  garments 

Of  a  penitent; 
I  shall  be  from  henceforth  ringer, 

Till  my  life  be  spent." 

Strange  to  say,  the  bitter  anguish, 

And  the  endless  pain, 
That  had  made  his  life  a  burden, 

Passed  away  like  rain; 
And  the  bell  rang  out  in  gladness, 

In  the  morning  air: 
Bang  out  like  a  seraph  singing 

In  the  trembling  air. 

Once,  long  after  from  the  ringing, 

Never  home  came  he; 
But  they  found  him  by  the  tower, 

From  his  penance  free. 
On  his  face  a  heavenly  rapture 

To  the  world  did  say, 
That  his  sins,  however  dreadful, 

Had  been  done  away. 

PAKT    SIXTH. 

Years  passed  by,  war  Avith  its  horrors 

Broke  o'er  the  Bohemian  land. 
Down  went  chapel,  down  went  tower, 

Leveled  by  the  robber  band. 


BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 

Yes,  the  silver  bell  they  wanted; 

But  God's  will  was  greater  still; 
Angel  hands  were  sent  to  guard  it, 

In  the  well  it  lingered  still. 

Deep  it  lies  amidst  the  waters 

And  the  pebbles  of  the  well; 
All  around  it  life  is  stirring, 

As  the  hunter's  horn  can  tell. 
But  the  bell  was  bound  to  silence, 

Till  the  hour  of  fate  drew  near, 
And  the  weak  hand  of  a  woman 

Pulled  it  up  without  a  fear. 

Only  halfway  could  she  pull  it, 

But  the  voice  rang,  clear  and  long: 
John,  John,  John,  sacrificed  John!" 

Ah,  never  more  shall  that  song 
Be  heard  of  a  mortal  again, 

Though  many  come  to  the  well 
To  water  their  linen  again. 

Though  many  the  story  tell, 
None  can  say  they  have  heard  its  voice, 

For  the  bell  is  hid  in  the  well, 
Never  more  to  be  heard  on  earth. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  LOST  SOUL.  33 


THE  STORY  OF  A  LOST  SOUL. 

A    BOHEMIAN    LEGEND. 

Across  a  verdant  meadow, 

Whose  diamond  dews  were  tears, 

Two  blessed  souls  were  walking; 
They  had  not  any  fears; 

And  just  behind  them,  sighing, 
Came  a  lost  soul  in  tears. 


At  length  they  reached  the  gateway, 
And  knocking  at  the  door, 

Stood  praying  at  the  threshold 
To  Him  whose  name  they  bore; 

With  radiant  faces  waiting, 
The  opening  of  that  door. 


Our  Lord  said  to  St.  Peter, 

"  Who  knocks,  I  pray  thee  see." 

Two  blessed  souls,  my  Saviour, 

Who  long  thy  face  to  see; 
And  a  very  sinful  soul, 

Who  fain  to  Thee  would  flee." 


The  Lord  said,  "  Let  them  enter, 
Those  righteous  souls  and  true; 

But  show  that  sinful  soul 
The  road  that  leads  to  rue; 

Where  she  in  cleansing  fire, 
Shall  mourn  her  sins,  not  few." 


34  BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 

That  poor  soul  went  lamenting, 

And  weeping  very  sore, 
Till  tears  of  blood  were  sprinkled, 

Upon  the  robe  she  wore. 
And  still  her  gaze  kept  seeking, 

That  distant,  close-shut  door. 

And  while  she  wandered  sadly, 
And  thought  upon  her  dole, 

She  saw  the  blessed  Virgin, 
Who  gazed  upon  her  soul, 

And  asked  in  accents  tender, 

"  Poor  soul,  what  is  thy  dole?" 

"  Alas!  alas!  "  she  answered, 
"  My  sins  are  very  great, 
I  cannot  enter  Heaven, 

My  soul  in  Hell  must  wait. 
Alas!  alas!  dear  mother, 

Have  pity  on  my  fate/' 

The  Blessed  Virgin  answered, 
"  I  can  do  nought  but  pray, 
Come  with  me,  erring  daughter, 

Upon  this  narrow  way. 
And  when  we  come  to  Heaven, 

I  for  thy  soul  will  pray." 

With  trembling  fear  and  anguish — 
With  many,  many  tears, 

The  poor  soul  stood  and  waited, 
And  struggled  with  her  fears, 

While  the  loud  knock  resounded, 
And  thundered  in  her  ears. 

Our  Lord  said  to  St.  Peter, 
"  Go  see  who  knocketh  so?" 
"  My  Lord,  it  is  your  Mother, 

With  a  lost  soul  from  woe." 
"  Then  let  mv  mother  enter, 

But  the  sinful  soul  must  go." 


THE  8TOR  7  OF  A  LOST  SO  UL.  35 

"  Not  so,  not  so,  beloved, 

My  son,  I  pray  thee  hear, 
Have  mercy,  I  beseech  tiiee, 

Upon  this  soul  in  fear. 
And  turn  her  bitter  anguish 

To  songs  of  praise,  just  here.'* 

"  Right  gladly  would  1  hear  thee, 

Oh,  Blessed  Mother  mine, 
But  in  my  Father's  mansions 

That  sinful  soul  would  pine; 

What  good  work  has  she  finished, 

Meet  for  this  home  divine?" 

"  Alas!  alas!  I  sinful 

Have  walked  in  my  own  light; 
The  world  and  all  its  pleasures, 

They  were  my  sole  delight; 
Alas!  1  am  most  sinful, 

Most  sinful  in  my  sight." 

"  But  say,  some  good  work  surely — 

Some  fasts  you  must  have  kept?" 
The  Blessed  Mother  questioned, 

The  sinful  soul  that  wept: 
"  Some  sins  you  must  have  thought  of, 

And  prayed  for,  ere  you  slept?  " 

"  Alas!  alas!  I  sinful 

Have  nothing  I  can  show, 
Except  I  sometimes  tended 

The  sick  ones  in  their  woe, 
And  gave  a  little  water 

To  those  down-stricken  low." 

Ah,  great  then  was  the  beauty, 

That  shown  in  our  Lord's  face: 
"  Give  me  thy  hand,  redeemed  one, 

Thy  sins  they  are  effaced; 
Come  in,  come  in,  redeemed  one, 

Thou,  too,  hast  won  the  race." 


36  BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 

And  by  the  hand  He  took  her, 

And  led  her  to  the  throne. 
"  This  one/'  He  said,  "  did  drink  me, 

And  tend  me  when  alone. 
This  act,  oh  Holy  Father, 
For  all  her  sins  atone." 


THE  DEVIL'S  BRIDE.  37 


THE  DEVIL'S  BRIDE. 

A    BOHEMIAN   BALLAD. 

There  was  a  virtuous  lady, 
Who  had  daughters  three  to  marry; 

With  two  of  them  she  went  to  church, 
For  the  third  she  would  not  tarry. 

The  girl  laughed  loud,  and  dressed  her  hair, 
For  she  had  a  mind  to  marry. 

She  thought  in  our  little  garden 

There  are  plenty  of  roses  fair; 
I  will  make  them  into  a  wreath; 

A  beautiful  wreath,  I  will  wear. 
Said  a  tall  young  man,  passing  by, 
"  Maid,  give  me  the  wreath  from  your  hair." 

<e  The  wreath's  not  for  you,  tall  young  man, 

I  wait  for  a  nobler  than  you." 
And  she  wandered  amidst  the  flowers, 

The  roses  of  many  hue. 
Said  a  bold  young  man,  passing  by, 
"  Maid,  give  me  the  wreath  from  yonr  hair." 

"  The  wreath's  not  for  you,  bold  young  man, 

I  wait  for  a  nobler  than  you." 
And  she  smiled  a  wicked  wee  smile, 
A  smile  that  to   her  was  not  new. 
Said  a  dark  young  man,  riding  by, 
"  Maid,  give  me  the  wreath  from  your  hair." 


33  BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 

"  I'll  give  you  the  wreath  from  my  hair, 

For  a  nobler  I  will  not  wait." 
Then  the  dark  young  man  stopped  his  steed, 

And  the  vain  girl  mounted  elate, 
While  he  \vhisp  ered  low  in  her  ears, 
"  I'll  take  thee  to  paradise  straight." 

And  away  they  rode  through  the  town, 

Till  they  came  to  an  awful  way; 
There  were  stunted   and  blasted  trees; 

There  were  snakes  there  ready  to  slay, 
And  there  many  a  poison  herb 

Grew,  that  hid  from  the  light  of  day. 

And  far  away  in  the  distance 

The  vain  girl  saw  the  flames  of  hell, 

That  leaped  with  their  tongues  of  fire 
'Gainst  the  sky  they  hated  so  well. 

And  their  steed  rushed  on  like  the  wind, 
And  soon  they  were  standing  in  hell. 

"  Open,  my  comrades,  my  black  ones, 

I  have  brought  you  a  vain  young  girl." 

The  door  flew  open,  and  devils, 

Yea,  hundreds  flew  out  with  a  whirl. 

And  they  danced  and  capered  with  glee, 
And  they  laughed  at  the  vain  young  girl. 

"  Where  are  your  manners,  you  devils? 

Bring  the  lady  a  glass  of  wine." 
Then  one  of  the  devils  ran  quick, 

And  soon  brought  her  a  goblet  fine. 
"  Drink,  thou  vainest  of  maidens,  drink, 

The  health  of  our  prince  in  this  wine." 

She  drank  of  that  wine  and  turned  pale; 

She  drank,  and  flames  rushed  from  her  lips. 
"  Oh,  prince  of  this  country,"  she  said, 
"  Oh,  moisten  with  water  my  lips." 
The  devils  laughed  loud  at  her  call, 

They  said,  "Take  long  draughts,  make  no  sips." 


il  Let  me  breathe  air  but  a  moment — 

A  moment  in  pity,  I  pray." 
But  the  devils,  laughing,  replied, 
"  That  is  easy  enough  to  say; 
Had  you  but  lived  a  better  life, 

You  would  not  have  been  here  to-day.' 

The  girl  wept  aloud  in  despair: 
"  My  soul  I  have  lost  now  for  aye, 
Oh,  would  I  could  tell  my  mother, 

To  teach  my  poor  sisters  to  pray; 
Oh,  would  I  could  go  to  the  earth, 

I  would  turn  them  from  sin  away." 

"  Cease  from  thy  fretting  and  worrying, 
There  are  plenty  to  teach  the  way. 

If  the  sisters  choose  to  listen 

They  can  also  learn  how  to  pray. 

You  chose  to  do  ill  in  your  life, 
And  your  soul  is  lost  now  for  aye." 


40  BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 


THE  LOVER  BY  THE  GRAVE. 

A   BOHEMIAN   BALLAD. 

Passing  through  the  somber  forest, 

Maidens  two  I  saw. 
"  Tell  me,  maidens,  tell  me,  fair  ones, 

That  I  hold  in  awe, 
Is  my  loved  one  midst  your  number, 
Making  hay,  or  doth  she  slumber?" 

"  Ah,  alas!  your  loved  one  slumbers, 

Deep  within  the  grave. 
Yesterday  we  laid  her  lowly, 

Where  the  grasses  wave." 
"  Dead!  my  loved  one,  oh,  tell  me  where 
Lies  my  loved  one,  without  compare?" 

"  Tis  a  fair  way  that  we  took  her, 

Winding  up  the  hill; 
Where  the  youths  trod  there  are  pebbles, 

You  can  see  them  still. 
Where  the  maidens  trod  are  roses, 
There  she  lies  in  death's  encloses." 


Tell  me,  maidens,  where  she  sleepeth, 
Whom  I  loved  so  well." 

Not  far  from  the  gateway,  lover, 
By  the  graveyard  cell." 

Twice  I  wandered  round  God's  acre, 

Praying  sore  unto  my  Maker. 


THE  LO  VER  KY  T8K  QRA  VE.  41 

Weeping  midst  the  graves  I  sought  her, 

Who  had  been  my  bride; 
But  her  lowly  grave  I  found  not, 

Though  I  wept  and  sighed. 
"  Who  disturbs  our  peaceful  sleeping?" 
Said  a  voice,  as  I  stood  weeping. 

"  Oh,  beloved  one,  break  thy  slumber, 

Come  from  out  thy  grave; 
Three  years  I  have  yearned  to  see  thee 

And  I  find  thy  grave!" 
"  Bnt  my  heart  is  cold  within  me, 
I  am  dead,  and  cannot  love  thee. 

"  Look  around  and  find  a  shovel, 

Make  me  free  from  earth; 
Take  me  home,  then,  my  beloved  one, 

'Midst  the  bridal  mirth." 
I  dug  deep,  I  found  my  loved  one, 
Cold  and  pale  I  found  my  loved  one. 

In  her  wedding  dress  I  saw  her, 

With  the  myrtle  wreath; 
But  her  eyes  were  closed  in  slumber, 

She  had  drank  of  letbe. 

"  Take  the  ring  off  from  my  finger — 

Wherefor,  lover,  dost  thou  linger? 

"  Throw  the  ring  into  the  river, 

It  will  bring  thee  peace; 
Leave  me,  then,  in  peaceful  sleeping, 

Let  thy  sorrow  cease. 
For  my  heart  is  cold  within  me, 
I  am  dead,  and  cannot  love  thee." 

"  Oh,  ring  ye  church  bells,  far  and  wide, 

That  my  bride  is  dead, 
Then  ring  ye  church  bells,  long  and  loud, 

That  my  heart  is  dead. 
Oli,  lay  me  in  the  self-same  grave 
With  her  whom  I  had  died  to  save." 


42 


THE  WTIZARD. 

'          A    BOHEMIAN    LEGEND. 

Through  the  dark  and  lonely  forest, 

Sparingly  the  sunlight  fell; 
Round  the  forests,  rocky  mountains, 

Where  the  eagle's  brood  doth  dwell; 
By  a  little  stream  of  water, 

In  a  cave  amidst,  the  rocks, 
Dwelt  the  wizard  of  Podjokly, 

Old  and  bent,  with  snowy  locks. 

Far  and  wide  they  came  to  see  him, 

Asking  help,  and  begging  aid; 
And  'twas  said  he  could  do  wonders — 

But  he  must  be  richly  paid. 
When  the  shades  of  evening  gather, 

Like  a  dark  cloud  in  the  sky, 
Once  there  came  a  muffled  figure, 

Hid  from  every  prying  eye. 

:  Wizard,  can  your  magic  tell  me, 

What  his  fate  was  who  wore  this? 
Name  your  price,  but  tell  me  truly, 

Is  your  knowledge  up  to  this?" 
In  his  hand  he  placed  a  locket 

With  a  curl  of  golden  hair. 
•  Name  your  price — but  tell  me  truly, 
Where  is  he  who  owned  this  hair?*7 

Then  the  wizard  lit  his  fire — 

Took  his  hood  and  drew  his  spell. 

Then  he  said,  "The  youth's  voice  whispers 
From  the  ground  where  he  doth  dwell. 


\ 


THE  WIZARD.  43 

Listen — do  yon  hear  the  whisper — 

He  was  killed  by  murder  foul! 
And  his  murderer  hid  the  body 

Near  a  cave  where  foxes  howl." 

"  Wizard,  can  you  say  who  killed  him — 

He  who  was  my  ford  on  earth? 
Name  your  price,  but  tell  rne  truly, 

Does  he  still  live  on  the  earth?" 
Then  the  wizard  rose  up  stately, 

And  said  slow,   "Accursed  one! 
Do  you  doubt  my  magic  power — 

You  are  that  accursed  one!  " 

"  Yes,  you  killed  your  stripling  nephew, 

To  inherit  his  broad  laud; 
And  you  come  here  but  to  question 

If  detection  is  at  hand. 
Do  you  dream  to  cheat  a  wizard, 

As  you  cheated  that  poor  lad  ? 
Yes,  detection  dogs  your  footsteps, 

You  shall  see  the  murdered  lad. 

"  Never  from  this  forest's  shadow 

Shall  you  wander  out  again; 
Even  now  they  bring  his  body; 

With  your  dagger  he  was  slain." 
At  these  words  the  muffled  stranger, 

With  a  shriek  rushed  to  the  door, 
But  he  fell  back,  swooning,  fainting, 

At  the  burden  that  they  bore. 

Half  devoured  by  the  foxes, 

Lay  the  lord  of  vast  estate; 
On  his  knees  a  raving  madman, 

Laughed  his  uncle  o'er  his  fate. 
Through  the  dark  and  somber  forest, 

Home  they  bore  the  murdered  youth; 
But  his  uncle  left  that  forest, 

Nevermore  on  earth,  forsooth. 


44  BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 


THEEE  AGES  IN  BOHEMIA. 

PAKT   FIRST. 

There  was  a  time  when  the  Bohemian  land 
Was  known  and  honored,  throughout  the  wide  world's 
length, 

For  mighty  warriors  and  heroic  men 

Her  name  was  honored,  bravery  was  her  strength. 

There  was  an  age  when  every  one  was  proud 

To  call  himself  a  son  of  that  fair  land, 
Where  every  art  was  known  and  learning  prized; 

And  praise  was  given  to  the  skillful  hand. 

There  was  an  age  when  the  Bohemian  tongue 

Was  spoken  from  the  throne  in  accents  clear; 
Divinest  harmony,  their  native  speech, 
v  In  palace  homes  was  spoken  far  and  near. 

That  time,  Bohemian  men  were  proud  to  say 
They  were  Bohemians,  sons  of  that  brave  land, 

Where  the  dread  lion  was  their  coat-of-arms, 
And  wealth  and  plenty  smiled  upon  the  land. 

PART   SECOND. 

Then  the  times  changed,  misfortune  came  apace, 
And  they  forgot  that  which  they  once  had  been. 

Indifference,  lethargy,  upon  them  crept, 

They  thought  no  more,  they  lived  as  in  a  dream. 

Bohemian  hearts  grew  cold,  their  native  land 
They  loved  no  more,  forgotten  was  their  pride — 

Forgotten  were  the  deeds  their  fathers  did — 
They  were  not  worthy  to  sleep  by  their  side. 


THREE  AGES  IN  BOHEMIA.  46 

Then  they  denied  their  land,  their  blood,  their  speech — 
Their  father's  cherished  things,  from  them  they  cast. 

And  took  upon  them  foreign  ways  and  speech, 
Forgetting  their  land's  brothers  of  the  past. 

Then  the  Bohemian  sun  grew  dark  and  dim, 
And  its  good  genius  stood  and  wept  afar. 

Their  poets  praised  no  more  their  native  land, 
Their  muse  was  dead — had  fled  afar,  afar. 

What  thoughts  were  his  who  stood  and  saw  all  this! 

Remembering  the  great  past  and  mighty  dead? 
He  whose  heart  beat  but  for  his  native  land — 

To  see  her  lying  there  before  him  dead. 

PAKT   THIED. 

But  hark!    Arise!     The  angel  of  the  Lord 

Sounds  from   his  trumpet,    "  Come    from  out  thy 
grave. 

Arise!  awake!  and  from  thy  every  church 
Let  national  songs  be  sung  thy  land  to  save." 

Thus  spake  the  angel,  and  the  love  of  land 

Woke  up  a  thousand  shades  from  out  their  graves. 

The  dying  heard  it,  and  awoke  again, 
Praising  the  Lord  that  they  no  more  we  re  slaves. 

The  spirit  of  their  fathers  came  again, 
Imbuing  with  new  life  their  torpid  hearts. 

Gladly  they  heard  the  call.     Awake !  arise! 
Sing  praises  in  your  churches  and  your  marts. 

Awake!  arise!  all  ye  that  slumber  still! 

The  day  is  dawning — see  the  light  breaks  through. 
The  nightingales  are  singing — wherefore  sleep? 

Shame  to  the  sluggards— let  them  be  but  few. 

Oh  brothers,  live  again  but  for  your  land — 

Be  ye  not  dead  unto  her  urgent  need. 
Oh,  be  ye  brothers,  be  ye  sons  again, 

Unto  your  native  laud  in  her  great  need, 


4$  T!0 UF.MTA N  LEG F.NT)R. 

Reverence  your  laws,  yonr  customs,  and  your  rights, 
Show  in  your  lives  yon  are  Bohemians  true; 

Then  shall  our  land  once  more  be  known  to  fame, 
As  in  the  ancient  times  when  ye  were  true. 


DEDICATED 

TO   MY  EAKLIEST   FRIEXD  AND    LOVE1)   SISTER,  MRS. 
ELIZABETH    DO  AXE. 

"Our  tokens  of  love  are  for  tbe  most  part  barbarous.  Cold  and 
lifeless,  because  they  do  not  represent  our  life.  Tbe  only  gift  is 
a  portion  of  thyself.  Therefore,  let  tbe  farmer  give  bis  corn;  tbe 
miner,  a  gem;  tbe  sailor,  coral  and  shells;  tbe  painter,  his  pic- 
tures; and  the  poet,  his  poem. — Emerson's  Essays. 


THE  WEDDING  SHIRT.  49 


THE  WEDDING  SHIRT. 

The  eleventh  hour  was  past  and  gone, 
But  still  the  lamp  burnt  on  and  on. 

The  lamp  that  on  the  praying  chair 
Cast  an  uneven,  ghastly  glare. 

On  the  low  wall  a  picture  hung, 
God's  parents,  praised  by  every  tongue. 

The  parents  with  the  Holy  Child, 
Roses,  with  rosebud,  saintly  mild. 

Before  the  heavenly  three  a  maid 
Upon  her  knees  her  prayers  said. 

Her  face  shone  with  a  holy  rest, 

Her  arms  were  crossed  upon  her  breast. 

And  as  her  tears  fell  soft  and  slow, 
Her  bosom  swelled  with  hidden  woe. 

Her  tears  they  fell  like  diamonds  bright 
Upon  her  bosom  snowy  white. 

"  Alas,  my  God!  my  father  lies 
Beneath  the  grass,  dust  in  his  eyes. 

"  Alas,  my  God!  my  mother  sleeps 
Beside  him — there  where  no  one  weeps. 

"  My  sister  died  within  a  year; 
In  battle  fell  ray  brother  dear. 


$0 


"  But  though  so  lonely,  still  I  loved 
Above  myself  a  youth  beloved. 

"  Tie  wandered  far  to  earn  his  bread  — 
And  came  no  more  —  perhaps  is  dead. 

"  Before  he  went  away  he  said, 
Wiping  my  tears,  '  We  soon  shall  wed.' 

"  '  Sow  flax,  my  loved  one,  in  your  field; 
God  give  you  have  a  bounteous  yield. 

"  '  The  first  year  spin  the  flaxen  thread, 
Then  bleach  it  white,  we  soon  shall  wed; 
The  third  year,  sew  thy  shirt,'  he  said. 

"  (  And  when  the  shirt  is  sewed,  my  fair, 
Then  make  a  garland  for  thy  hair.' 

"  The  shirt  I  finished,  put  away, 
And  there  it  lies  unto  this  day. 

"  My  wreath  is  faded,  withered  now  — 
But  where  art  thou?  Oh,  where  art  thou? 

"  In  the  wide  world  you  went  away, 
Wide  as  the  sea,  I  heard  them  say. 

"  Three  years  have  passed  —  I  do  not  know 
If  still  you  live  —  perhaps  lie  low. 

"  Mary!  Virgin  of  mighty  strength! 
Give  me,  give  me  thy  aid  at  length. 

"  Bring,  oh,  bring,  my  loved  again  — 
Make  an  end  of  my  lingering  pain. 

"  Bring  my  loved  to  me  again, 
Or  let  me  die  —  my  life  is  vain. 

"  I  hoped  indeed  to  be  his  wife  — 
And  without  him—  well,  what  is  life! 


THE  WEDDIXO  SilUlT.  51 

"  Mary!  Mother  of  Mercy,  hear, 
And  grant  iny  prayer  even  here." 

The  pictured  face  bowed  low  her  head — 
The  maiden  shrieked,  and  would  have  fled. 

The  lamp  that  had  been  burning  dim 
Went  out.     Was  it  the  north-wind's  whim? 

"  Was  it  the  wind — or  can  it  be 
Some  evil  token  unto  me? 

"  Hush!  Did  I  hear  a  timid  tap 
Upon  the  window,  rap,  rap,  rap." 

"  Art  thon  asleep,  or  dost  thou  wake? 
Up,  my  beloved!  Up,  for  my  sake. 

"  Up,  my  beloved,  and  look  at  me — 
If  you  still  know  me,  I  would  see. 
And  is  thy  hand  and  heart  still  free?" 

"  Oh!  my  beloved,  and  can  it  be! 
See  I  was  thinking  just  of  thee. 

"  Praying  indeed  that  we  might  meet, 
That  God  might  lead  thy  wandering  feet." 

"  Leave  thy  praying,  and  come  with  me — 
Bah  on  thy  praying — come  with  me! 

"  The  moon  is  shining  far  and  wide, 
Come  quick  with  me,  come  quick,  my  bride." 

"  For  God's  sake!  Why,  my  love,  'tis  night — 
'Tis  late — wait  only  for  the  light. 

"  The  wind  howls,  and  the  night  is  dark, 
Wait  till  the  dawn,  and  then  we  start." 

"  Bah!  Day  is  night  and  night  is  day — 
1  dream  in  the  daytime— come  away. 


L&GKffiM 

"  Before  the  cock  crows,  thou  must  be 
My  wife,  so  come  along  with  me. 

"  Don't  talk,  but  come  along  with  me, 
Ere  the  day  dawn,  my  wife  thou'it  be." 

It  was  deep  midnight  when  they  went, 
The  moon  far  off  watched,  nearly  spent. 

The  landscape  lay  in  silence  deep, 
Only  the  wind  it  would  not  sleep. 

And  he  went  onward,  striding  fast, 
She,  step  for  step,  behind  him  passed. 

The  dogs  came  out  and  howled  in  choir, 
When'er  they  passed  a  cottage  door. 

And  see,  they  saw  a  strange,  strange  sight, 
A  corpse  that  walked  about  at  night. 

"  The  night  is  fine — such  nights  the  dead 
Rise  from  their  graves,  I've  heard  it  said. 

"  And  ere  one  knows,  stand  by  one's  side — 
My  love  doth  fear?     Wouldst  thou  hide?  " 

"  Why  should  I  fear?  Why  should  I  hide? 
(rod  is  above — thou  by  my  side. 

"  But  tell  me,  is  your  father  well? 
And  will  he  like  with  me  to  dwell? 

"  And  is  your  mother  satisfied, 
To  have  me  always  by  her  side?'* 

"  Why,  my  beloved  one,  do  you  ask? 
Keep  your  health  only  for  this  task. 

"  To  reach  our  home — come  quick,  come  quick — 
The  way  is  long — thou  art  not  quick. 


THE  WEDDING  SHIRT. 

"  What  hast  thou  in  thy  hand,  my  bride? 
"  My  mass  book,  that  no  ill  betide." 

"  Throw  it  away,  'tis  like  a  stone  — 
I  hate  to  hear  thy  praying  tone. 

"  Throw  it  away,  thou'll  lighter  be, 
Throw  it  away,  and  come  with  me." 

He  took  the  book,  and  tossed  away  — 
They  gained  ten  miles  upon  the  way. 

And  the  path  was  rocky  and  lone, 
Amidst  forests  that  made  a  moan. 

And  behind  the  mountains  and  rocks 
Howled  the  wild  dogs,  in  savage  flocks. 

And  the  voice  of  the  screech-owl  told 
Of  evil  that  threatened  the  bold. 


And  he  went  onward,  striding  fast, 
She,  step  for  step,  behind  him  passed. 

Across  the  stony,  rocky  way, 
Her  white  feet  went  that  evil  day. 

And  e'en  the  weeds,  and  tangled  grass, 
Were  stained  with  blood  as  she  did  pass. 

"  The  night  is  fine—  such  nights  the  dead 
Walk  with  the  living,  I've  heard  said. 

"  And  ere  one  knows,  stand  by  one's  side  — 
My  love  doth  fear?     Wouldst  thou  hide?  " 

"  Why  should  I  fear?    Why  should  I  hide? 
God  is  above  —  thou  by  my  side. 

"  But,  tell  me,  is  your  cottage  large? 
Aiid  who,  my  love,  has  it  in  charge? 


&011  EM  I  AN  LEO  ENDS. 

"  Is  the  room  big?    And  is  it  bright? 
Is  the  church,  loved  one,  withiu.  sight?" 

"  Much,  my  fair  one,  you  question  me; 
Come  on,  quick,  then  you  soon  will  see. 

"  Quicken  thy  pace,  the  way  is  long, 
Time  flies,  yes,  quicker,  then  a  song. 

"  What  hangs  about  thy  waist,  I  pray?" 
'•'  My  rosary  I  took  on  the  way." 

"  Thy  rosary!     It  winds  like  a  snake — 
It  makes  me  anxious  for  thy  sake. 

"  Throw  it  away,  it  stops  thy  speed, 
And  follow  quickly  where  I  lead." 

The  rosary  he  threw  away — 
Twenty  miles  they  were  on  their  way. 

And  the  road  was  swampy  and  bad, 
By  morasses,  desolate,  sad. 

O'er  the  marshes  the  corpse-lights  shone, 
Ghastly  blue  they  glimmered  alone. 

Nine  on  each  side,  they  went  ahead, 

As  though  they  burned  for  some  poor  dead. 

The  frogs  they  sang  the  burial  hymn, 
The  blue  lights  flickered  and  grew  dim. 

And  he  went  onward,  striding  fast, 
She  wearily  behind  him  passed. 

Poor  maiden,  why  your  feet  are  sore, 
And  blood  runs  where  your  feet  you  tore. 

The  weeds  are  covered  with  your  blood, 
But  on  he  strides  with  heavy  thud. 


THE  WEDDING  SHIRT.  55 

"  The  night  is  fine— such  nights  the  dead 
Seek  out  the  living,  I've  heard  said. 

"  And  ere  one  thinks,  one's  grave  is  near — 
Say,  my  beloved,  dost  thou  fear?  " 

"  I  fear  not;  thou  art  by  my  side — 
And  God's  will — why  it  must  betide. 

"  But  wait  a  moment,  let  me  stay, 
And  rest  a  while  upon  the  way." 

Her  soul  was  faint,  her  knees  were  weak, 
And  swords  seemed  in  her  heart  to  meet. 

"  Come  quick,  come  quick,  oh  maiden  mine, 
Our  home  is  near,  make  no  repine. 

"  The  banquet's  spread — the  guests  they  wait — 
Time  flies,  we  surely  will  be  late. 

"  What  hast  thou  on  that  ribbon  fine 

Upon  thy  throat,  oh  loved  one  mine?" 
"  My  mother's  cross — the  cross  divine." 

"  Ha,  ha,  that  golden  cross  it  pricks — 
I  see  the  blood  it  slowly  tricks. 

< 

"  It  wounds  you — cast  it  from  you  now, 
Then  you'll  speed  on,  you  know  not  how." 

The  cross  he  took,  and  cast  away — 
Thirty  miles  they  gained  on  their  way. 

Upon  a  wide  and  open  plain 
She  saw  a  building  once  again. 

The  windows  they  were  narrow,  high, 
A  bell  hung  in  the  turret  nigh. 

"  Look,  my  beloved  one,  we  are  near, 
How  does  it  please  thee,  let  me  hear?" 


56  BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 

"  Ah  God!    It  is  a  church  I  see." 
"  'Tis  no  church,  but  belongs  to  me! " 

"  That  churchyard,  and  those  crosses  thine?" 
"  No  crosses — trees  for  which  I  pine! 

"  Look  on  me,  loved  one,  over  all, 
Then  quickly  jump  over  the  wall." 

"  Oh,  let  me  be,  thy  look  is  wild— 
Thou  art  no  longer  gentle,  mild. 

"  Thy  breath  is  like  a  poison  rare, 
Thy  heart  it  is  no  longer  there." 

"  Oh,  fear  me  not!    A  happy  life 
Is  thine  if  thou  wilt  be  my  wife. 

"  Meat  thou'lt  have — without  blood  I  say, 
Except  by  hazard— just  to-day. 

"  What  hast  thou  in  thy  bundle  there?" 
"  The  shirts  I  made  of  linen  fair." 

"  Two  are  enough — throw  them  away, 
One  for  us  each,  enough  I  say." 

He  threw  the  bundle  on  the  wall, 
It  fell  upon  a  gravestone  tall. 

"  Be  not  afraid,  but  look  at  me, 
And  jump  across  the  wall  you  see." 

"  You  went  before  me  all  the  way, 
Then  lead  across  the  wall,  I  pray. 

"  I  followed  but  the  path  you  trod, 
Jump  over  first  upon  the  sod." 

He  jumped  across  the  churchyard  wall, 
He  thought  of  treason  not  at  all. 


THE  WEDDING  SHIRT.  57 

Five  feet  he  leaped  into  the  air, 

Then  he  looked  back,  no  maid  was  there. 

But  like  a  flash  he  saw  a  form 
Glide  by  him,  in  the  dark,  forlorn. 

There  stood  indeed  a  chamber  small, 
One  heard  the  latchstring  quickly  fall. 

A  narrow  room,  with  windows  none — 
Through  chiuks  the  moonlight  passage  won. 

And  in  that  cage-like  room  on  bier, 
A  corpse  is  laid  with  no  one  near. 

Ah,  what  is  this — this  nameless  fear — 
The  ghouls  are  stirring — they  are  here! 

One  hears  them — they  are  gliding  on — 
And  strange  and  weird  their  ghostly  song. 

"  The  body  to  the  earth  is  told, 
Alas!  for  him  who  lost  his  soul/' 

And  on  the  door  one  heard  them  rap, 
And  awful  was  their  tap,  tap,  tap. 

"  Arise,  oh  dead  one,  from  thy  bier, 
Pull  back  the  latch,  we  all  are  here." 

The  dead  one  opens  wide  his  eyes, 
He  makes  as  though  he  would  arise. 

His  head  he  raises  from  the  bier, 
He  looks  about  him,  far  and  near. 

"t  Great  Godl^Thy  mercy  now  I  pray — 
Oh,  keep  me  from  the  devil's  sway! " 

"  You  dead  one,  lay  you  down  to  sleep — 
God  in  His  mercy,  thy  soul  keep." 


58  BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 

The  corpse  lay  down  again  in  peace, 
Of  sleep  he  took  another  lease. 

But  listen!  Once  again  the  rap, 
And  stronger  now  their  tap,  tap,  tap. 

"  Arise,  oh  dead  one,  from  thy  bier, 
Open  the  room — the  dead  are  here." 

And  at  that  knock,  and  at  that  song, 
The  dead  woke  from  his  slumbers  strong. 

He  stretched  his  stiff  arm  to  the  door, 
And  would  perhaps  have  gained  the  floor. 

"  Christ  save  thy  soul!     And  mercy  give — 
He  can  and  will,  thy  sins  forgive!  " 

"  Yon  dead  one,  lay  yon  down  to  sleep, 
God  give  you  joy,  and  slumber  deep." 

The  corpse  he  stretched  him  out  again, 
And  stiffly  lay  as  he  had  lain. 

And  once  again  that  awful  rap — 
Her  head  reeled  as  she  heard  that  tap. 

"  Arise,  oh  dead  one,  from  thy  bier, 
Give  us  the  living — do  you  hear?  " 

Alas!  alas!  poor  maiden  mine, 

The  dead  are  here,  for  the  third  time. 

The  dead  stares  from  his  sunken  eyes, 
He  looks  to  where  the  maiden  lies. 

"  Mary!  Mother  of  God,  be  near! 
Pray,  to  thy  son,  I  fear,  I  fear! 

"  The  prayer  I  prayed  it  was  not  right, 
Forgive  me!     Save  me  in  thy  might. 


THE  WEDDING  SHIRT.  59 

"  Mary!  Mother  of  mercy  hear! 
Save  me,  oh  save  me,  even  here." 

And  see — just  at  that  moment  dread, 
The  cock  crows,  and  the  dead  falls  dead. 

And  "all  around  the  cocks  crow  clear, 

The  night  is  past,  the  dawn  is  near. 

« 

The  dead  one  lies  upon  the  floor, 
Just  as  he  went  to  open  the  door. 

Without  the  silence  is  profound, 
Unbroken  by  a  single  sound. 

The  sun  rose  high,  the  people  came, 

To  hear  the  mass  and  praise  God's  name. 

A  new  and  open  grave  they  found — 
The  girl  was  in  the  dead-house  round. 

A  wedding  favor  on  each  mound, 

Made  from  her  shirts,  they  quickly  found. 

They  filled  the  grave,  and  burnt  with  care, 
Each  rag  that  they  found  anywhere. 

The  maiden  from  a  foreign  part, 
They  kindly  took  unto  their  heart. 

"  Well  for  you,  maiden,  that  you  prayed, 
Of  evil  that  you  were  afraid; 
And  even  in  God's  ways  have  strayed. 

"  Or,  like  your  shirts,  you  would  have  been 
Torn  into  bits,  by  ghouls,  I  ween. 

"  Well  for  you  that  you  knelt  to  pray, 
Or  lost  your  soul  had  been  this  day." 


BOHEMIAN  LEQEND8. 


THE  GOLD  SPINNING-WHEEL. 

PAET   FIRST. 

A  forest  and  a  widening  plain — 

And  see  a  rider  comes  amain; 
From  out  the  forest,  on  fiery  steed, 
One  hears  the  horseshoes  ring  at  his  speed 
As  he  rides  alone,  alone. 

And  by  a  hamlet  down  he  sprang, 
And  on  the  door  knocks,  bang,  bang,  bang. 
"  Hola  within!  come  open  the  door! 
In  hunting  I've  lost  my  way  once  more, 
Come,  give  me  water  to  drink." 

Out  came  a  maiden,  wondrous  fair, 
The  world  n'er  saw  such  beauty  rare — 

She  brought  him  water  from  out  the  spring, 
Bashfully  then,  made  the  spin-wheel  sing, 
As  she  sat  there  spinning  flax. 

The  rider  stops,  is  looking  on, 
Forgotten  thirst  in  that  sweet  song. 

Wondering  he  watches  the  fine  white  thread; 

His  eyes  are  fixed  on  the  bowed  fair  head 
Of  the  beautiful  spinner. 

"  If  your  hand  is  free,  maiden  mine — 
My  wife  thou'lt  be — for  thee  I  pine/' 

He  fain  would  have  clasped  her  to  his  breast, 
But  she  said,  "  My  mother's  will  is  best, 
And.  I  have  no  will  but  hers." 


THE  GOLD  SPINNING-WHEEL.  61 

And  who  may  be  thy  mother,  maid? 
There's  110  one  here,  my  maiden  staid." 
"  Oh,  sir,  my  stepmother's  in  the  town, 
She  went  for  her  daughter  to  the  town; 
To-morrow  they  both  come  home." 

PART   SECOND. 

A  forest  and  a  widening  plain, 

And  see  the  rider  comes  again 

From  out  the  forest  on  snowy  steed — 
One  hears  the  hoof-irons  ring  at  his  speed, 
As  he  rides  to  the  hamlet. 

And  by  the  hamlet  down  he  sprang, 
And  on  the  door  knocks,  bang,  bang,  bang. 
"  Hola  within,  come  open  the  door, 
Let  me  see  thy  face,  beloved,  once  more, 
Oh,  thou  who  art  my  treasure." 

Out  came  a  granny,  skin  and  bone: 
"  Ha!  AVhat  brings  you?"  Harsh  was  her  tone 
"  I  bring  you  a  change  in  house,"  he  said. 
"  I  fain  would  your  handsome  daughter  wed — 
The  one  you  call  not  your  own." 

"  Ha!  ha!  your  words  are  passing  strange — 
Who  would  have  thought  of  such  a  change! 
Be  welcome  though,  my  honorable  guest, 
Unknown  to  me,  I  still  bid  you  rest — 
.  Coine,  tell  me  how  you  came  here." 

"  Know  I  am  Jung  of  all  this  land— 
I  strayed  here  from  my  knightly  band. 
I'll  give  you  silver,  I'll  give  you  gold 
For  that  daughter  of  yours — wealth  untold, 
For  that  beautiful  spinner." 

"  Oh,  master  king,  'tis  strange,  most  strange — 
Who  would  have  thought  of  such  a  change! 
We  are  not  worthy,  oh,  master  king, 
To  dare  to  think  of  such  a  thing; 
We  are  poor,  humble  people. 


62  BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 

"  Still  one  thing — yes,  that  I  can  do 
For  stranger,  give  my  daughter  true. 
They  are  alike — one  like  the  other; 
Like  two  eyes,  from  the  selfsame  mother, 
And  see  her  thread  is  silken." 

"  Granny,  your  words  I  do  not  like — 
Do  as  I  order,  that  is  right. 
To-morrow  when  the  dawn  is  nearing, 
Bring  your  stepdaughter,  her  heart  cheering, 
Unto  my  kingly  castle." 

PART  THIRD. 

"  Arise,  my  daughter,  it  is  time — 
The  king  waits — 'tis  a  merry  rhyme — 
The  banquet's  ready;  sure,  I  never 
Spake  better  for  you — though  I  never 
Dared  hope  for  such  an  honor." 

"  Array  thyself,  oh,  sister  mine: 
In  the  king's  courts  their  clothes  are  fine; 
Oh,  very  high  you  have  sought  your  mate, 
And  you  leave  me  to  my  lonely  fate — 
No  matter — be  but  happy." 

"  Come,  Dorothy,  beloved  one,  come, 
Your  bridegroom  waits,  so  only  come. 
When  you  have  entered  the  forest's  shade 
You'll  think  no  more  of  your  home,  my  maid, 
Come,  hasten,  daughter,  hasten."  " 

"  Mother,  dear  mother,  tell  me  why 
You  take  that  knife?  It  makes  me  sigh." 
"  The  knife  is  sharp — in  the  forest  deep 
I'll  cut  the  eyes  of  a  snake  asleep. 

Come,  hasten,  daughter,  hasten." 

"  Listen,  dear  sister,  tell  me  why 
You  take  that  axe?  It  makes  me  sigh." 
"  The  axe  is  good — in  the  forest  still, 
I'll  maim  a  beast,  a  beast  of  ill-will. 
Come,  hasten,  sister,  hasten." 


THE  GOLD  BPINNlXQ-WHEKt.  C3 

And  when  they  reached  the  forest  dark 
They  said,  "  That  snake,  that  beast,  thou  art! " 
The  mountains  and  valleys  wept  to  see 
How  they  killed  the  bride  that  was  to  be, 
That  poor  girl  without  blemish. 

"  Rejoice  now  in  your  stalwart  groom; 
Rejoice  within  your  pleasant  room; 
Look  on  him  stately  as  a  tower; 
Gaze  on  his  brow  in  festive  hour, 
You  spinner,  great  in  beauty." 

"  Dear  mother,  tell  me  what  to  do 
With  eyes  and  limbs,  what  shall  I  do?  " 
"  Don't  leave  them  by  the  trunk,  my  daughter, 
Who  knows  but  some  one  here  might  loiter — 
Yes,  rather  take  them  with  you." 

And  when  they  left  the  forest  shade 
The  mother  said,  "  Be  not  afraid; 

You  are  alike — one  like  the  other; 

Like  two  eyes  from  the  selfsame  mother. 
Take  courage,  then,  my  daughter." 

And  as  they  neared  the  castle  gate, 

The  king  was  watching  for  his  mate. 
He  left  the  window,  and  went  to  meet, 
With  his  lords  behind,  his  maiden  sweet; 
He  did  not  dream  of  treachery. 

There  was  a  wedding!  Play  on  play, 
The  bride  sat  laughing  all  the  day. 

There  were  banquets,  music  all  the  time; 

The  world  seemed  to  dance,  to  merry  chime, 
Till  the  seventh  day  had  passed. 

And  on  the  eighth  day  the  king  spake: 
"  Alas'!  my  bride  I  must  forsake. 

I  must  go  and  fight  the  haughty  foe. 

Be  happy,  my  bride,  and  let  no  woe 

Be  thine  till  I  come  again. 


PA  BOHEMIAN  LEGEND8. 

"  When  from  the  battle  I  come  back, 
Our  love  will  blossom  without  lack. 
Till  then  I  bid  tbee  diligent  be: 
Spin  thy  flax,  and  keep  thinking  of  rne, 
As  you  spin  the  linen  thread/' 

PART   FOURTH 

And  in  the  forest  dark  and  drear, 
How  sleeps  the  maid,  I  want  to  hear. 

From  out  six  wounds  her  blood  is  gushing, 
And  nought  to  still  its  awful  rushing, 
As  she  lay  on  the  emerald  moss. 

Gladly  she  went  to  meet  her  fate — 
Now  death  is  near  her — it  is  late. 

Her  body's  cooling— her  blood  is  set — 
Yes,  even  the  ground  with  blood  is  wet, 
Alas,  that  you  saw  the  king! 

Behind  a  rock  an  old  man  came, 

One  could  not  tell  from  where  he  came; 

His  long  gray  beard  hung  below  his  knees; 

He  took  up  the  murdered  maid  with  ease, 
And  carried  her  to  his  cell. 

"  Get  up,  my  lad,  the  need  is  great — 
Take  the  gold  spinning-wheel  of  fate; 
In  the  king's  palace  they  will  buy  it; 
But  hear:  Only  for  feet  I  sell  it, 
No  other  pay  will  answer." 

The  lad  jumped  on  his  fiery  steed, 
The  spinning-wheel  he  held  with  heed. 
"  Who  buys?"  he  called  at  the  castle  gate, 
"  Who  would  buy  a  spinning-wheel  of  fate, 
Of  purest  gold,  I  warrant?" 

"  Go,  my  mother,  and  ask  the  price, 
The  spinning-wheel  is  strong  and  nice." 
"  Buy  it,  my  lady!     It  is  not  dear — 
My  father  is  cheap — you  need  not  fear, 
For  two  feet  he  will  give  it." 


TI1K  GOLD  SPINNISG-WSEKL.  65 

t(  For  two  feet!    'Tis  a  strange,  odd  price — 
Still  I  will  buy — the  wheel  is  nice. 
So  mother  bring  our  Dorothy's  feet 
From  out  our  room — let  your  steps  be  fleet — 
And  I  will  take  the  spin-wheel." 

The  feet  were  given  to  the  lad, 
He  rode  back  to  the  forest  sad. 
"  Hand  me,  my  boy,  the  living  water, 
I  soon  will  heal  this  ill-starred  daughter, 
Without  a  scar  I'll-  heal  her." 

Wound  upon  wound  he  gently  pressed; 
It  grew  together  like  the  rest, 

And  the  dead  feet  warmed  with  living  heat, 

And  grew  to  the  body  as  was  meet, 
And  no  scar  was  to  be  seen. 

"  Take,  my  boy,  from  the  cupboard  there, 
The  distaff — golden,  very  fair, 
In  the  king's  palace  they  will  buy  it; 
But  hear:  Only  for  hands  I  sell  it, 
No  other  pay  will  answer." 

The  lad  jumped  on  his  fiery  steed, 
The  golden  distaff  he  held  with  heed. 

The  queen  looked  out  of  the  window  high, 
"  If  I  had  that  distaff,"  she  did  sigh, 
"  To  match  my  golden  spin-wheel." 

"  Get  up,  my  mother,  from  your  seat, 
And  ask  the  price  of  that  distaff  neat." 
"  Buy  it,  my  lady!     It  is  not  dear — 
My  father  is  cheap — you  need  not  fear, 
For  two  hands  he  will  give  it." 

"  For  two  hands!  'Tis  a  strange,  odd  price — 
But  I'll  buy  the  distaff — it  is  nice. 

Go  bring  our  Dorothy's  hands,  I  pray, 
Though  it  seems  to  me  'tis  hardly  pay, 
For  a  golden  distaff  fine." 


6(3  SOfftiMTAtf  LEGENDS. 

The  hands  were  given  to  the  lad, 
He  rode  back  to  the  forest  sad. 
"  Hand  me,  my  boy,  the  living  water, 
I  soon  will  heal  this  ill-starred  daughter, 
Without  a  scar,  I'll  heal  her." 

Wound  upon  wound  he  gently  pressed; 

It  grew  together  like  the  rest, 

And  the  dead  hands  warmed  with  living  heat, 
And  grew  to  the  body  as  was  meet, 
But  no  scar  was  to  be  seen. 

"  Up,  my  lad,  and  be  on  the  way, 
I  have  a  whirl  to  sell  this  day; 

In  the  king's  palace  they  will  buy  it; 
But  listen:  Only  for  eyes  I  sell  it, 
No  other  pay  will  answer." 

The  lad  jumped  on  his  fiery  steed, 
The  precious  whirl  he  held  with  heed. 

The  queen  looked  out  of  the  window  high, 
"  If  I  had  that  whirl " — and  she  did  sigh, 
"  To  match  my  golden  distaff. 

"  Get  up,  my  mother,  from  your  seat, 
And  ask  the  price  of  that  whirl  so  neat!  " 
"  For  eyes,  my  lady!     The  whirl  to-day, 
'Tis  my  father's  will,  I  must  obey, 
For  two  eyes  you.  can  have  it." 

"  For  two  eyes!    Are  you  crazy,  lad? 
Who  is  your  father,  speak  out,  lad?  " 
"  Who  is  my  father,  you  need  not  know, 
Those  who  seek  him,  find  him  not  I  know, 
But  he'll  come  to  you  I  ween." 

"  Mother,  mother,  what  shall  I  say? 
I  must  have  that  whirl — come  what  may!  " 
"  So  bring  our  Dorothy's  eyes,  I  pray; 
I  must  have  that  whirl  this  very  day, 
Give  him  our  Dorothy's  eyes." 


THE  GOLD  SPINNING-WHEEL.  (ft 

The  eyes  were  given  to  the  lad, 
He  rode  back  to  the  forest  sad. 
"  Hand  me,  my  boy,  the  living  water, 
I  soon  will  heal  this  ill-starred  daughter, 
Without  a  scar  I'll  heal  her." 

He  placed  the  eyes  where  they  should  be; 
Life  came  back,  and  the  girl  could  see, 

And  the  maiden  rose,  and  looked  around — 

She  was  alone — not  even  a  sound 
Disturbed  the  forest's  silence. 

PART   FIFTH. 

Three  weeks  had  passed,  the  king  rode  home, 
Merrily  back  upon  his  roan. 
"  How  are  you,  beloved  wife,"  he  said, 
"  And  have  you  been  spinning  linen  thread, 
And  thinking  of  me,  my  love?" 

"  Your  parting  words  I  kept  with  care — 
Look  at  this  golden  spin-wheel  fair, 
The  only  spin-wheel  of  gold,  I  trow, 
With  distaff  and  whirl  I  bought  it  now, 
For  love  of  you  I  bought  it." 

"  I  pray  thee  sit  and  spin,  my  dove, 
A  golden  thread  spin  me,  my  love." 
With  joy  she  sat  herself  down  to  spin, 
Turned  the  wheel — then  blanched,  her  face  grew 

thin, 
As  she  heard  that  awful  song. 

"  Vrrr — you  have  spun  an  awful  thread — 
Yes,  blood  is  on  your  hands  and  head — 
You  killed  your  sister,  and  took  her  place. 
You  tore  her  limbs  and  eyes  from  their  place. 
Vrrr — you  have  spun  an  awful  thread." 

"  What  spinning  wheel  is  this,  I  pray? 
Strange  is  the  song  it  sings,  I  say? 

But  spin  on,  my  wife,  I  fain  would  hear 
Some  more  of  this  song,  so  strange  and  drear, 
Spin— my  wile,  spin  on,  I  pray/' 


68 


"  Vrrr  —  yon  have  spun  an  awful  thread! 
Through  treachery  you  are  now  wed; 

You  killed  your  sister,  and  took  her  place! 
Yes,  you  tore  her  eyes  from  out  her  face! 
Vrrr  —  you  have  spun  an  awful  thread!  " 

"  Ho!  dreadful  is  this  song  to  me! 
You  are  not  wife  what  you  should  be, 
But  spin,  I  bid  thee,  for  the  third  time; 
Let  me  hear  once  more  that  dreadful  rhyme; 
Spin,  my  wife  —  spin  on,  I  say." 

«  Vrrr  —  you  have  spun  an  awful  thread! 
Through  treachery  you  are  now  wed; 
In  the  wood  your  murdered  sister  lies  — 
You  cheated  the  king  with  shameful  lies. 
Vrrr  —  you  have  spun  an  awful  thread!" 

The  king  heard,  and  he  rushed  away, 
On  steed  he  sprang  and  went  his  way. 
In  the  forest  vast  he  wandered  far, 
And  he  called  her  name  near  and  afar, 
"Dorothy,  where  art  thou,  love?" 

PART   SIXTH. 

Forest,  castle,  a  stretching  plain  — 

Two  riders  ride  along  amain. 
The  bridegroom  and  bride  ride  on  with  speed, 
One  hears  the  horseshoes  ring  at  their  speed, 
As  they  ride  to  the  castle. 

And  a  wedding  .was  held  once  more  — 

The  bride  was  fairer  than  before. 

There  were  banquets,  music  all  the  time, 
The  world  seemed  to  dance  to  merry  chime, 
Till  three  weeks  had  pass'd  away. 

And  what  of  that  raven  mother? 

And  cruel,  cruel  sister? 

Four  foxes  run  in  the  forest  dark, 
Each  one  has  a  woman's  trunk  for  part, 
As  they  rush  into  the  wood. 


Pttti  GOLD 

The  heads  hang  down  without  the  eyes, 

The  hands  and  feet  are  cut  likewise. 
Tn  the  forest  dark,  they  met  their  fate, 
^here  they  killed  the  maid  they  met  their  fate, 
The  death  they  made  her  suffer. 

And  what  of  the  gold  spinning  wheel? 

Its  song  was  done — that  golden  wheel 
Sang  but  <hree  times  that  miserable  lay, 
Then,  strange  to  say,  it  vanished  away. 
But  where  no  man  can  tell  you. 


to  BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 


CHRISTMAS. 

In  the  holy  Christmas  season 

Shines  the  moonlight  bright  and  clear, 
In  the  graveyard,  on  the  crosses, 

In  the  warden's  window  near; 
Ami  the  moonlight  roused  his  slumber — 

From  his  bed  he  rose  in  haste, 
Thinking  it  must  be  now  morning 

And  he  had  no  time  to  waste. 

Bright  the  snow  is  lying  round  him, 

As  he  goes  to  ring  the  bell. 
When  he  hears  the  church  clock  striking 

Twelve  o'clock,  he  counts  it  well. 
Home  again  he  would  have  turned  him, 

Lain  him  down  in  peace  again, 
When  by  chance  he  sees  the  window, 

Where  light  streams  from  out  the  pane. 

Lost  in  wonder  he  went  onward 

To  the  church,  and  entered  in. 
Candles  by  the  altar  burning 

Light  the  church's  outline  dim. 
There  he  sees  upon  the  benches, 

Men  and  women  scattered  round, 
People  that  he  knows  are  kneeling, 

Praying  there  without  a  sound. 

Then  he  spoke,  and  said  "  Good-morning, J 
First  to  this  one,  then  to  that. 

Not  an  answer  did  they  give  him, 
No  one  noticed  where  he  sat 


n 


Then  a  chill  of  horror  shook  him  — 
Arid  his  hair  it  stood  on  ends. 

With  his  thoughts  in  wild  confusion 
From  the  church  his   steps  he  bends. 


To  the  priest  he  goes,  and  wildly 
Tells  him  of  the  wondrous  tale. 

Though  astonished  the  priest  calmly 

Speaks  of  God  who  cannot  fail. 
"  See  this  wild  fear  we  must  conquer." 
Holy  water  now  he  takes, 

Sprinkles  it  upon  them  saying, 

"  God  will  save  us  for  His  sake." 


To  the  church  he  bends  his  footsteps, 

With  his  own  eyes  now  to  see, 
While  the  warden  half-dead  follows, 

That  strange  sight  once  more  to  see. 
And  thero  truly,  he  can  see  them, 

People  that  he  knows  full  well, 
At  the  altar  they  are  gazing, 

They  are  praying,  one  can  tell. 

N"ot  one  turns  to  look  about  him, 

They  are  praying  with  a  will. 
As  the  clock  strikes  one,  the  shadows 

Pass  away  in  silence  chill. 
Here  it  changes,  there  it  changes, 

And  the  lights  fade  one  by  one; 
Then  the  scene  grows  dim  and  faded, 

Like  a  dream  that  now  is  done. 


Little  time  had  passed,  and  several 

Went  from  out  this  world  away; 
Then  another  one  was  bidden 

All  his  farewells  quick  to  say; 
And  before  the  year  was  finished 

Every  one  that  they  had  seen 
Had  been  called  by  God  Almighty, 

To  a  brighter,  happier  scene. 

/  I 


BOHMiAtf 

Then  they  both  knew  what  the  meaning 

Of  this  strange  scene  did  imply, 
And  upon  each  Christmas  midnight 

To  the  church  they  went  to  spy, 
Who  of  all  their  living  neighbors 

To  the  grave  was  drawing  near, 
For  not  one  that  they  saw  praying 

Would  outlive  the  coming  year. 

And  one  year  they  looked  with  horror — 

Thought  it  was  the  Judgment  day! 
For  the  church  was  filled  with  people 

Sitting,  crowding  all  the  way; 
And  they  could  not  count  the  number — 

Filled  were  they  with  horror  great. 
But  next  year  the  plague  came  raging, 

Many  people  met  their  fate. 

And  as  once  they  went  to  notice 

Who  should  die  the  coming  year, 
With  a  start  of  inward  terror 

Saw  the  warden,  himself  near. 
He  was  kneeling  by  the  threshold — 

And  the  priest  the  mass  did  say — 
Then  they  knew,  beyond  all  doubting, 

This  year  they  should  pass  away. 

Then  they  knelt  in  earnest  prayer, 
While  the  priest,  his  hands  upraised, 

Saying,  "  Oh,  Almighty  Father, 
Be  Thy  name  forever  praised! 

Grant  that  death  may  find  us  worthy 
Of  that  heaven  Thou  hast  won." 

And  the  warden  answered  humbly, 

"  Father,  let  Thy  will  be  done." 

And  they  praised  the  Lord  while  living, 

Lying  down,  and  getting  up; 
Giving  to  the  poor  and  needy, 

What  they  had  on  plate  and  cup. 
Very  heedful  of  their  footsteps, 

Not  to  miss  the  narrow  way, 
And  before  the  year  wns  finished 

Both  in  God  had  passed  away. 


THE  ORPHAN. 

"  Whose  child  is  this  that  in  the  wintry  storm, 

The  cutting  north-wind,  with  its  snow  and  ice, 
At  midnight  in  the  graveyard  walks  forlorn, 
And  seeks  a  grave  amidst  the  snow  and  ice?" 

"  Mother,  oh  my  loving  mother,  hear  me, 

Your  little  daughter  calls,  oh  hear  me  now; 
I  am  forsaken  of  all  men,  I  see; 
Since  father  died,  how  wretched  I  am  now. 

"  Nothing  but  hunger  and  neglect  are  mine; 
Look  where  I  will,  no  friendly  face  I  see; 
Oh,  look  in  pity  on  me,  mother  mine, 
Oh  loving  mother,  let  me  come  to  thee." 

The  little  child  wept,  and  the  pearly  tears 

Froze  on  her  cheeks  like  diamonds  clear  and  bright; 

Upon  her  mother's  grave  she  slept,  no  fears 
Came  to  disturb  her,  'twas  a  sad,  sad  sight. 

The  snow  fell  fast  upon  the  childlike  form, 
But  see,  she  dreamt  a  very  happy  dream; 

She  heard  her  mother's  voice,  and  saw  her  form 
Stoop  down  to  take  her — Could  it  be  a  dream? 

The  child  slept  on,  no  need  now  to  awake — 
In  that  glad  dream  the  soul  had  passed  away; 

Where  she  had  slept  they  now  her  grave  must  make; 
Ah  I  woe  is  me,  it  was  a  sad,  sad  day. 


BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 


BKETISLAV. 

Before  the  gate  a  harper  stands, 

And  begs  that  he  may  enter  in. 
"  'Tis  well  to  praise  one's  native  land, 

And  hear  its  songs.     Yes,  let  him  in, 
Open  the  gate  and  let  him  sing, 
That  every  idle  care  take  wing." 
Thus  ordered  the  prince  Oldfich. 

The  singer  entered,  young  of  mein, 
And  lowly  bowed  before  the  prince. 

Then  stooping  low,  he  kissed  the  seam 
Of  Bozena's  dress,  wife  of  the  prince. 

Before  the  golden  throne  he  stood, 

And  struck  the  harp  with  tones  that  would 
But  make  his  song  the  sweeter. 

"  A  rich  young  man  once  loved  a  girl, 

A  maid  without  compare; 
But  cloister  walls  they  hid  his  pearl, 
His  heart  was  in  despair. 

"  How  many  weary  days  he  spent 

In  wandering  round  the  walls; 
Then  in  a  happy  hour  he  went, 
And  sang  before  those  halls. 

"  '  Oh,  rosy  lips,  what  say  ye  now, 

Within  that  cloister  cold? 
Look  from  thy  window,  see  me  now, 
A  minstrel  singing  bold.' 


£$ETI8LA  V. 

"  '  Oh  listen/  said  a  far-off  voice, 
'  Singer,  of  lovely  song; 
Take  out  your  sword  and  be  your  choice, 
To  save  me  from  this  throng/ 


'  Oh,  thanks  be  to  that  simple  song! 

Oh,  thanks  be  to  the  sky! 
My  life  I'll  give  to  right  thy  wrong, 

Or  very  gladly  die/ 

He  went  and  donned  a  pilger  robe, 
Then  came  with  footsteps  slow; 

One  could  not  see  beneath  that  robe 
The  sabre  hanging  low. 


"  He  found  them  singing  a  sweet  hymn, 

While  on  their  knees  they  prayed. 
He  stood  awhile  and  heard  their'hymn 
Hand  on  his  sword  he  laid. 


"  On  to  the  church  they  singing  went, 

Chanting  '  Zion!  Zion! ' 
With  one  bound  in  their  midst  he  went, 
Like  a  roaring  lion. 

"  Between  the  shrieks  and  screams  of  fear, 

He  caught  the  girl  he  loved. 
Then  turned  him  to  the  drawbridge  near, 
Carrying  the  maid  he  loved. 

"  The  keeper  of  the  drawbridge  saw, 

And  would  have  stopped  their  flight. 
He  drew  the  bridge  up,  'twas  his  law, 
To  have  the  chain  draw  right. 

"  The  youth  drew  out  his  mighty  sword, 

He  cut  the  chain  in  two. 
The  links  were  severed  by  his  sword, 
And  on  the  bridge  they  flew. 


"  The  keeper  of  the  bridge  stood  pale, 

The  nuns  were  sore  afraid; 
The  servants  they  set  up  a  wail, 
But  all  that  did  not  aid. 

"  I  wonder  if  you  now  can  tell, 

Who  was  this  youth  so  bold? 
Who  cut  the  strong  chain  quick  and  well, 
With  lady  in  his  hold?" 

The  harper  ceased,  his  song  was  done, 
And  low  he  bowed  before  the  throne. 

The  youths  they  whispered  every  one, 

"  It  is  not  true,"  in  undertone; 
"  For  who  can  cut  an  iron  chain, 

E'en  with  a  sword  that  hath  no  stain? 
The  singer  singeth  nonsense." 

Prince  Oldfich  smiled,  and  asked  his  wife, 

Bozena,  if  she  knew  his  thought? 
"  It  seems  to  me  'tis  true  to  life. 

And  that  the  youth  his  loved  one  sought. 
I  feel  that  Bfetislav,  our  son, 
Could  do  this  deed  beneath  the  sun, 
As  well  as  that  bold  stripling." 

And  see  the  door  flew  open  wide, 
While  youth  and  maiden  entered  in. 

They  bow,  and  to  his  father's  side 
Bfetislav  leads  his  loved  one  in. 
"  Yes  father,  you  are  right,  your  son 

Did  do  this  deed,  beneath  the  sun, 
To  win  his  loved  one,  Jitka." 


A  BOHEMIAN  LEGEND. 


A  BOHEMIAN  LEGEND. 

The  little  child  stood  on  the  bench, 

And  cried  as  loud  as  child  can  cry. 
"  Will  you  be  quiet,  naughty  one — 
That  is  the  way  that  gypsies  cry. 

"  Twelve  o'clock  will  soon  be  striking, 

And  see  the  dinner  is  not  done; 
What  will  father  say,  you  spoilt  one, 
When  my  work  lies  there  all  undone. 

"  Hush!  here  are  your  playthings — wagon, 

Horses,  soldiers,  whatever  you  will." 
Scarcely  had  she  finished  speaking, 
All  was  thrown  away  with  a  will. 

.  And  the  child  began  its  howling, 

Shrieking  out  like  a  thing  possessed; 
"  Hush!  hush!"   cried  the  tired  mother, 
"  So  cry  souls  that  die  unconfessed. 

"  Come  witch — come  and  take  her  naughty- 
Hush!  hush!  or  I  will  call  the  witch. 
Come  witch,  come  and  take  her  naughty — 
Oh,  good  God!  can  that  be  the  witch?" 

Little  humpback,  horrible  form, 
Half  revealed  by  the  ample  cloak, 

In  the  room  on  crutches  hobbling, 

Came  the  witch;  her  voice  was  a  croak. 

"  Give  me  the  child."     "  Oh  Holy  Christ, 
Forgive  my  sins,"  the  mother  cried. 

"  Ah,  never  from  the  room  the  witch 
Will  go,  till  one  of  us  has  died." 


BOHEMIAN  LEQMX>8. 

She  nears  the  table  where  they  stand, 
She  creeps  along  as  shadows  creep. 

The  wretched  mother  hardly  breathes — 
She  clasps  her  child,  that  does  not  weep. 

Alas!  alas!  that  fatal  call; 

Poor  child,  there  is  no  help  for  thee. 
The  witch  comes  creeping,  creeping  on, 

She  stretches  out  her  hand  for  thee. 

She  stretches  out  her  hand  to  take — 
The  mother  cannot  keep  her  hold. 

I  pray  ye  by  Christ's  wounds,"  she  calls, 
But  still  she  cannot  keep  her  hold. 

And  senseless  to  the  ground  she  falls, 
Just  as  the  clock  begins  to  strike. 

The  father  from  his  work  comes  home, 
The  look  of  things  he  does  not  like. 

They  brought  the  mother  to  herself — 
But  oh,  the  child  upon  her  breast, 

The  little  child  she  loved  so  well, 
Had  passed  away  to  endless  rest. 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  LEO  USE.  79 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  LKOUSE,  1571. 

Samonice's    bells  are  gladly  ringing — 

The  farmers  mourn,  but  their  lords  are  laughing. 

From  out  the  castle  to  the  church  they  go, 
Lorecky"  Lkouse  has  two  sons,  you  know. 

Carriage  on  carriage  drive  from  out  the  gate. 
The  gentleman  of  Lkouse  looks  elate. 

He  oft  had  thought  to  die  without  an  heir, 
Now  he  drives  through  the  village  with  a  pair. 

But  see,  the  way  is  blocked  with  village  men, 
And  Peter  Dulik  stops  the  steeds  just  then. 

Sirak  bows,  and  fain  would  now  have  spoken. 
Samonicky  waits  not,  calls  out  "  Open!  " 

"  Coachman,  beat  the  knave!  Whip  him  from  the  way! 
Let  my  horses  tramp  them  down  this  glad  day/* 

But  Peter  Dulik  will  not  loose  his  hold, 
But  calls  out  in  a  voice  both  loud  and  bold: 

"  God  has  given  you  twins — will  you  mercy  show, 
Mercy,  for  God's  sake,  mercy  to  us  show. 

"  Free  us  from  the  tenth  part — lighten  our  way, 
For  we  starve  and  fast,  as  on  Good  Friday. 

"  Faint  we  are  with  labor — toiling  for  you — 
Oh,  bless  us  this  day — twins  God  gave  to  you!" 


80  BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 

"  Yes,  God  gave  me  twins  !"  Lorecky  now  cried, 
"  They  will  be  whips  for  your  lazy  hide. 

"  They  will  help  me  drive  you  rascals,  low  born — 
To  help  me  in  this  task,  see,  they  were  born. 

"  Two  God  gave  to  me,  one  was  not  enough — 
To  dare  to  speak  of  mercy,  and  such  stuff. 

"  Wait  till  they  grow  up — Clear  the  way  I  say, 
And  take  care  that  we  meet  no  more  to-day." 

Duh'k  dropped  the  reins  and  all  turned  aside; 
Dazed  he  looked  around,  wrath  he  could  not  hide. 

Then  he  quickly  spoke  in  the  common  speech, 
"  Never  as  whips  will  your  son's  manhood  reach. 

"  No  more  we  will  murmur — this  we  will  do, 
Cut  your  whips  before  they  grow  strong  and  true. 

"  For  our  children's  backs  scorpions  we'll  not  rear — 
Nor  see  them  made  to  cripples. — have  no  fear!  " 

Samonice's    bells  are  gladly  ringing — 

The  lords  mourn,  but^he  farmers  are  laughing. 

The  castle  is  in  flames — blood  is  flowing, 
On  a  cask  Peter  Duh'k  is  judging. 

"With  pitchforks  round  about  him  stood  the  men, 
It  was  the  farmer's  sigh  of  justice  then. 

Beneath  him  in  a  pool  of  blood  there  lay 
Samonice's    lord,  with  his  sons  that  day. 


,. 


THK  TO  UTH  FROM  HR  U$0  V.  81 


THE  YOUTH  FKOM  HRUSOV. 

"  Across  the  stony  mountains, 

Who  comes  in  war's  array? 
The  warlike  Zvikos  is  it? 

Quick,  arm  thee  for  the  fray. 
A  charger  waits  to  bear  thee — 

My  son,  grasp  quick  thy  sword, 
And  hold  the  spear  with  courage, 

I  am  too  old  for  that  horde." 

Thus  spake  the  old  Hrusovec 

Unto  his  well-loved  son, 
And  gave  unto  his  brave  hand, 

A  flagstaff  bravely  won. 
"  Take  now  this  golden  banner, 

'Neath  which  your  grandsire  fought 
The  heathen  on  the  seacoast, 

Where  he  great  havoc  wrought. 

"  Many  a  time  this  castle 

The  enemy  had  won, 
But  when  they  saw  this  banner, 

They  feared  it,  every  one. 
Take  it,  my  son,  and  cherish, 

Yea,  as  thou  wouldst  thy  life — 
Come  back  with  it  triumphing, 

Or  die  there  in  the  strife."  ' 

The  old  man's  voice  was  husky, 
The  lad  from  him  must  part — 

The  youth  he  caught  the  banner, 
And  pressed  it  to  his  heart; 


BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 

Upon  his  breast  was  harness, 
His  sword  was  by  his  side; 

His  heart  beat  for  his  loved  one, 
With  love  he  could  not  hide. 


Her  eyes  with  tears  are  heavy, 
As  she  looks  on  the  youth; 

Her  cheeks  are  pale  with  anguish, 

"  God  be  with  thee  in  sooth." 

A  wreath  upon  the  banner, 
A  ribbon  on  the  sword, 

Then  she  called  out,  "  Be  prosperous, 
Come,  living  from  the  horde." 

One  heard  the  noise  of  battle, 

The  blows  that  fell  apace; 
New  warriors  rush  to  conquer, 

To  fill  the  vacant  place; 
The  youth  is  with  them,  carrying 

The  banner  of  his  land, 
The  sun  is  shining  on  them, 

It  lights  the  bloody  band. 

Upon  the  castle  turret, 

The  maiden  gazing  stands; 
She  looks  down  on  her  lover, 

Fighting  those  warlike  bands; 
Her  heart  with  pleasure  beating, 

When  high  the  banner  flies; 
Her  hands  to  heaven  she  raises, 

When  low  the  banner  lies. 


Like  a  wild  beast  defending 

The  lair  that  is  his  home, 
The  youth  is  rushing  onward, 

His  horse  is  all  in  foam. 
But  Zvikos  goes  to  meet  him, 

He  strikes  with  might  and  main, 
The  arm  that  holds  the  banner, 

The  hand  sinks  down  in  pain. 


THE  TO  UTH  FROM  HR  U$0  V.  83 

The  banner  would  have  sunk  now, 

Had  not  the  fearless  youth 
Caught  it  in  his  strong  left  hand, 

And  held  it  high  in  truth. 
A  lion  was  the  stripling 

In  bravery;  to  and  fro 
One  saw  the  banner  waving 

Like  forest  tree,  I  trow. 

Zvikos'men  are  charging—- 
One comes  behind  the  lad, 

With  mighty  spear  he  strikes  him; 
His  blood  is  running  sad; 

The  left  hand  now  is  shattered, 
The  flag  with  blood  is  red — 

His  pale  lips  caught  the  banner — 
The  horse  turned  round  and  fled. 

Fled  onward  to  the  castle, 

And  there  the  youth  fell  dead; 
His  pale  lips  held  the  banner — 

The  noble  soul  had  fled. 
The  maiden  on  the  turret, 

Like  stricken  doe,  runs  down, 
She  looks  upon  her  lover, 

Then  dead  she  too  falls  down. 

The  plain  is  green  with  grasses, 

A  mighty  tree  stands  bare; 
The  lightning  struck  it  often, 

For  ages  it  stood  there. 
The  castle  is  a  ruin — 

It  frowns  down  from  the  hill, 
But  the  memory  of  the  youth 

Lives  in  Bohemia  still. 


84  BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 


THE  DAUGHTER'S  CURSE. 

"  Why  are  you  so  lost  in  thinking, 

Daughter  mine? 

Why  are  you  so  lost  in  thinking? 
You  who  were  so  fond  of  laughing — 
And  whose  face  was  always  glad! " 

<e  I  have  killed  a  little  pigeon, 
Mother  mine; 

I  have  killed  a  little  pigeon, 
A  forsaken  little  pigeon; 
It  was  white;  ah,  white  like  snow.'* 

"  'Twas  no  pigeon,  I  misdoubt  me, 

Daughter  mine; 

'Twas  no  pigeon,  I  misdoubt  me; 
But  your  brain  is  touched,  I  fear  me, 
And  your  look  is  strange  and  wild.'J 

"  Oh,  I  have  killed  a  little  child, 

Mother  mine; 

Oh,  I  have  killed  a  little  child; 
My  new-born  babe,  my  own  fair  child- 
Would  I  could  die  with  remorse!" 

"  What  do  you  mean  to  do,  I  ask, 

Daughter  mine? 
What  do  you  mean  to  do,  I  ask? 
How  will  you  mend  this  luckless  task- 
How  will  you  find  God's  mercy?" 


THE  DA  TIGHTER S  CURSR  85 

"  I  will  go  seek  that  flower  now, 

Mother  mine; 

I  will  go  seek  that  flower  now; 
That  soon  will  cool  my  criminal  brow, 
And  stop  my  pulses  throbbing." 

"  And  when  you  find  the  grass  you  seek, 

Daughter  mine; 

And  when  you  find  the  grass  you  seek; 
The  flax  that  grows  beside  the  leek 
In  many  a  garden  round?  " 

"  Behind  the  bridge,  upon  the  hill, 

Mother  mine; 

Behind  the  bridge,  upon  the  hill, 

In  tree  I'll  drive  a  nail  with  will, 

And  so  end  all  my  sinning. " 

"  What  last  word  will  you  leave  the  youth, 

Daughter  mine? 

What  last  word  will  you  leave  the  youth 
Who  used  to  come  to  us,  forsooth, 
And  loved  thee  for  a  season?  " 

"  A  blessing  on  his  head,  I  pray, 

Mother  mine; 

A  blessing  on  his  head,  I  pray — 
Eemorse  until  his  dying  day, 
Because  he  lightly  wooed  me/' 

"  What  last  word  do  you  leave  to  me, 

Daughter  mine? 

What  last  word  do  you  leave  to  me, 
Who  loved  you  when  a  baby  wee — 
And  who  brought  thee  up  with  toil?" 

"  My  curse  I  leave  thee,  that  is  all, 

Mother  mine; 

My  curse  I  leave  thee,  that  is  all, 
That  you  may  know  no  peace  at  all, 
Because  you  let  me  have  my  way." 


86  BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  NEW  MOTHER. 

His  mother  died  when  he  was  but  a  child; 
His  saintly  mother,  with  her  features  mild, 
Was  laid  away  in  the  cold  churchyard  soil, 
Ere  yet  his  little  hands  had  learned  to  toil, 
And  soon  his  father  took  another  wife, 
A  buxom  maiden,  who  was  fond  of  strife, 
And  bore  illwill  to  the  poor  little  lad, 
Whose  childish  life  she  made  most  drear  and  sad. 
One  day  his  childish  heart  was  full  to  break, 
And  childishly  he  asked,  "  When  will  she  wake? 
Oh,  tell  me,  father,  will  she  ever  wake — 
My  own  loved  mother?     Wake  up,  for  my  sake?" 
Alas!  my  son,  she  sleepeth  in  the  grave, 
Beside  the  churchyard  gate,  where  grasses  wave. 
Oh,  they  sleep  well  who  sleep  within  the  soil — 
Uo  play  in  peace,  my  son,  she  knows  no  toil." 
With  toddling  feet  he  to  the  churchyard  went, 
And  sitting  on  her  grave,  his  strength  outspent, 
Began  to  think  how  he  should  wake  her  sleep, 
Who  slept  in  the  cold  earth  so  well  and  deep. 
With  a  large  pin  he  loosed  the  graveyard  soil, 
And  was  so  eager  in  his  loving  toil 
He  was  not  startled  when  he  heard  her  voice, 
Calling  to  him,  "  My  child,  my  love,  my  choice, 
I  cannot  come  to  thee,  for  on  my  heart 
Lies  a  great  stone,  from  which  I  cannot  part. 
But  tell  me,  my  beloved,  why  art  thou  here?" 
And  then  the  little  child,  without  a  fear, 
Said  to  his  mother,  "  When  she  gives  me  bread, 
She  always  says  she  wishes  I  were  dead. 
You  also  gave  me  bread,  oh,  mother  mine, 
And  buttered  it,  for  surely  I  was  thine. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  NEW  MOTHER.  87 

When  she  combs  my  hair,  see  my  tears  full  fast, 

For  she  pulls  it  till  the  hlood  comes  at  last; 

When  you  combed  my  curls,  oft  you  kissed  my  hair, 

And  you  loved  to  hear  me  called  good  and  fair; 

When  she  washes  me  with  her  rough,  hard  hand, 

See,  she  sometimes  scrubs  me,  yea,  e'en  with  sand; 

AVhen  you  washed  me,  oh,  never  did  I  cry. 

Oh,  how  can  you  sleep,  and  leave  me  to  cry?" 

Then  his  mother's  voice  said  low,  "  So,  my  son, 

I  will  come  for  thee  at  the  rising  sun." 

Then  the  little  child,  with  a  happy  smile, 

Said  to  his  father,  "  In  a  little  while 

You  can  dig  my  grave  by  my  mother's  side; 

By  this  time  to-morrow  I  shall  have  died; 

For  she  told  me  true,  at  the  rising  sun 

I  will  come  and  take  thee,  my  darling  son." 

When  the  morning  came,  dead  upon  his  bed 

Lay  the  little  child,  but  his  soul  had  fled 

To  those  realms  on  high,  where  his  mother  stood-— 

No  need  of  speaking,  all  was  understood. 

On  the  third  sad  day,  by  his  mother's  side 

They  laid  him  gently,  who  so  oft  had  sighed, 

And  his  father,  gazing  upward  at  the  sky, 

Said,  "Oh,  would  to  God,  that  I  too  could  die." 


BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RINGING. 

The  winter  evening  draweth  near — 
O'er  stubble  fields  the  wind  howls  drear, 
And  borne  upon  the  northern  blast 
To  Karluv  Tyn  rides  a  courier  fast. 

The  tower  bell  rings  sad  to-day, 
Without  is  frost,  within  is  May; 
The  servants  they  are  happy  all, 
And  oft  a  merry  jest  let  fall. 

The  tower  ringer  enters  now, 
An  old  man  with  a  noble  brow; 
Still  round  him  gather  all  the  youth, 
Like  children  for  some  news  forsooth. 

The  old  man  sinks  within  his  seat; 
Sad  is  his  look,  though  mild  and  sweet; 
The  youth  stand  round  him  waiting  still, 
To  hear  his  tale,  or  do  his  will. 

Oh,  sad  the  news  I  have  to  tell — 

*  Onr  loved  king  Charles,  he  is  not  well — 
Pray,  children,  that  he  may  recover; 
Charles  whom  we  love,  yea,  like  no  other. 

Long  he  has  suffered  fever's  pain — 
Oh,  would  that  he  were  well  again! 
Oh,  God  in  mercy,  save  our  king, 
Save  our  good  Charles,  oh,  spare  our  king. 

*  NOTE.— Charles   the    Fourth,  king  of  Bohemia,  A.D.    1347 
to  1378,  Emperor  of  the  Romans. 


TBE  MYSTERIOUS  RINGING.  gg 

A  Christian!    At  St.  Catherine's  shrine, 
Each  year  he  prayed  the  King  divine 
To  bless  his  people;  this  good  king 
Without  God  never  did  a  thing. 

He  loved  Bohemia  from  his  heart- 
As  king,  as  father  took  her  part. 
He  loved  us  all  like  children  dear, 
Our  good,  good  Charles,  without  a  peer. 

What's  that?    You  hear?     The  key  hangs  there— 
The  tower's  shut — Let  the  light  flare. 
You  hear?    How  mournful  is  the  tone — • 
St.  Catherine's  bell — it  rings  alone!  " 

Silence  awhile,  they  listen  all, 
The  bell  tolls  from  the  tower  tall, 
Then  suddenly  the  bells  ring  all. 
And  strange  the  message  that  they  bore. 
"  He  is  no  more — he  is  no  more." 

A  wonder — why  the  key  hangs  there — 
"  Bring  me  a  light,  I'll  climb  the  stair." 
Breathless  he  stands  before  the  door, 
The  bells  are  ringing  as  before. 

The  door  is  shut!  he  listening  stands — 
The  bells  are  rung  by  unknown  hands; 
He  trembles  as  he  listening  stands, 
For  sad  the  message  that  they  bore: 
"  He  is  no  more — he  is  no  more." 

The  ringer  opens  quick  the  door, 
He  climbs  up  to  the  turret  floor; 
But  there  he  breathless  stands  in  fear, 
The  bells  toll,  but  no  man  is  near. 

He  hears  their  iron  hearts  beat  quick — 
The  melody  it  makes  him  sick; 
He  gazes  round  in  mute  despair, 
For  not  a  living  soul  is  there. 


90  BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 

He  falls  upon  his  knees  and  prays, 
The  great  bell  far  above  him  sways, 
Then  all  ring,  like  on  funeral  days. 
He  listens,  praying  on  the  floor, 
"  Charles  is  no  more!     Charles  is  no  more!" 

The  next  day  came  a  rider,  sent 
From  Prague  to  Karluv  Tyn  sadly  spent; 
And  as  he  spoke  the  people  wept— 
Yes,  sadly  wept — for  Charles  now  slept. 

They  wept  to  hear  their  king  was  dead; 
He  died  the  night  before,  they  said. 
Bohemia  honors  still  his  name, 
Their  good  King  Charles,  well  known  to  fame. 


t£t  VITA  TION  TO  SOW.  0  j 


INVITATION  TO  SONG. 

Oh,  let  us  sing  songs  full  of  love, 

Bohemian  national  songs  of  love; 
For  as  long  as  Bohemians  sing, 

Their  national  life  cannot  take  wing. 
Go  wander  all  over  our  land, 

Over  valley  and  wood-crowned  hill, 
There's  not  a  place  without  a  band, 

Or  song,  like  a  mountain  rill. 

The  Bohemian  lion  loved  song — 

Songs  he  sang  against  every  wrong; 
And  when  for  his  country  he'fought, 

It  was  also  with  song  that  he  taught. 
Even  the  castle  Vysehrad 

Shook  when  Zaboj   the  minstrel  sang, 
Like  Orfej,  upon  the  green  sod, 

War  songs  that  like  clear  trumpets  rang. 
For  this  reason  Bohemians  should  sing, 

That  their  national  life  n'er  take  wing. 


SWEET  DEATH. 

A  youth  rides  quickly  on  his  steed — 

He  rides  to  battle. 

The  war-horse  gladly  neighs  and  leaps, 
But  his  poor  mother  at  home  weeps, 
For  her  darling  son, 
For  her  darling  son. 

"  Weep  not,  weep  not,  my  loved  mother, 

For  your  dearest  son; 
I  must  go,  you  all  to  defend, 
And  my  loved  country's  flag  attend, 
Even  if  I  die, 
Even  if  I  die. 

"  After  a  time  I'll  come  again, 

On  my  battle  steed. 
Bohemians  cannot  cowards  be, 
But  the  thick  of  the  battle  see, 
Both  I  and  my  steed, 
Both  I  and  my  steed. 

"  But  should  I  in  battle  sinking 

N'er  come  home  again, 

Then  remember,  mother  dearest, 

No  Bohemian  ever  fearest 

For  his  land  to  die, 
For  his  laud  to  die." 


&QXQ  Of  A  &OL&&&  83 


SONG  OF  A  SOLDIER. 

Very  soon  ended  the  dream  of  my  life — 
Yesterday  I  galloped  gladly, 
To-day  my  heart's  blood  Bushes  madly, 

To-morrow  I  sleep  in  death, 

To-morrow  I  sleep  in  death. 
Tra,  la,  la,  la. 

Your  boyhood  and  youth  have  ended  too  soon; 
You  had  a  soldier's  brow  of  pride, 
And  your  cheeks  were  like  the  roses  dyed; 

They  have  faded  now,  alas! 

They  have  faded  now,  alas! 
Tra,  la,  la,  la. 

Know  no  fear — let  the  will  of  God  be  done; 
Write  about  me  a  warrior's  song, 
That  I  was  brave  and  did  no  wrong; 

I  die  gladly  for  my  land, 

I  die  gladly  for  my  land. 
Tra,  la,  la,  la. 


94  BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 


WHY  IS  IT. 

The  peaceful  moon  is  shining, 
In  heaven's  vaulted  dome; 

The  stars  around  her  shining, 
Like  sisters  of  one  home. 

Why,  oh  why,  poor  heart  of  mine, 

Art  thou  troubled  and  dost  pine? 

Upon  the  glassy  lake's  surface 

A  swan  majestic  swims; 
Rushes  in  this  quiet  place 

Obey  the  zephyr's  whims. 
Why,  oh  why,  poor  heart  of  mine, 
Art  thou  troubled  and  dost  pine? 

A  pretty  pigeon  flutters, 

Soft  cooing,  to  his  dove; 
Mother  swallow  chirping  flutters, 

Seeking  food  for  her  love. 
Why,  oh  why,  poor  heart  of  mine, 
Art  thou  troubled  and  dost  pine? 

Day  and  night  I  pass  in  anguish, 

In  an  endless  warfare; 
Nothing  pleases  me;  I  languish, 

And  my  heart  is  in  despair. 
Why,  oh  why,  poor  heart  of  mine, 
Art  thou  troubled  and  dost  pine? 

The  melancholy  nightingale 

Is  singing  of  his  pain; 
I  too  have  lost  my  love  and  wail — 

My  tears  they  fall  like  rain. 
This  is  the  reason,  heart  of  mine, 
That  thou  art  troubled  and  dost  pine. 


WHEN  I  WENT  TO  BfiE  YOtf.  95 


WHEN  I  WENT  TO  SEE  YOU. 

When  I  went  to  see  you  through  the  forest — 

Ah,  alas!  through  the  forest — 
You  were  more  lively  then,  more  lively  then, 

Ah,  alas!  more  lively  then. 
But  now  you  are  pale,  my  loved  one; 
But  now  you  are  pale,  my  loved  one; 
And  I  fear  for  your  ail  there  is  no  cure; 

Ah,  alas!  there  is  no  cure. 

When  I  went  to  see  you  by  the  marshes — 

Ah,  alas!  by  the  marshes — 
You  were  like  a  rose  then,  like  a  rose  then, 

Ah,  alas!  like  a  rose  then. 
But  now  you  are  pale,  my  loved  one; 
But  now  you  are  pale,  my  loved  one; 
And  I  fear  for  your  ail  there  is  no  cure; 

Ah,  alas!  there  is  no  cure. 

When  I  went  to  see  you,  'neath  the  window — 

Ah,  alas!  neath  the  window — 
You  were  all  milk  and  rose,  all  milk  and  rose, 

Ah,  alas!  all  milk  and  rose. 
But  now  you  are  pale,  my  loved  one; 
But  now  you  are  pale,  my  loved  one; 
And  I  fear  for  your  ail  there  is  no  cure; 

Ah,  alas!  there  is  no  cure. 


66 


AT  THE  CHURCH  DOOR. 

HE — Now  they  lead  my  loved  one  to  the  church  door; 
Now  then  you  are  mine,  beloved, 
Now  you  are  mine. 

SHE — Not  yet  am  I  yours,  loved,  not  yet; 
I  am  still  my  mother's  own. 

HE — Now  they  lead  my  loved  one  to  the  altar; 
Now  then  you  are  mine,  beloved, 
Now  you  are  mine. 

SHE — Not  yet  am  I  yours,  beloved,  not  yet; 
I  am  still  my  mother's  own. 

HE — Now  I  lead  my  loved  one  from  the  altar; 
Now  then  you  are  mine,  beloved, 
Now  you  are  mine. 

SHE — Now  then  I  am  yours,  beloved,  alone; 
Now  I  am  no  more  mamma's. 


ottotioo 


CtJCKOO  SONG. 

"  Cuckoo,  cuckoo/'  sang  the  cuckoo 
In  the  little  grove, 
Ah,  in  the  little  grove. 
In  her  own  home  wept  my  loved  one 
In  her  lonely  room, 
Ah,  in  her  lonely  room. 

"  Why  are  you  weeping,  lamenting — 
Surely  you  are  mine, 
Ah,  surely  you  are  mine. 
When  the  cuckoo  cries  at  Christmas 
Three  times  you  are  mine, 
Ah,  three  times  you  are  mine." 

"  How  can  I  keep  from  lamenting — 
When  you  are  not  mine, 
Ah,  when  you  are  not  mine. 
For  the  cuckoo  ne'er  at  Christmas 
Lets  his  voice  be  heard, 
Ah,  lets  his  voice  be  heard." 


BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 


GOOD-NIGHT. 


Good-night,  my  beloved, 

Sweet,  good-night. 
God  watch  you  Himself,  loved, 

And  keep  you. 

Dear,  good-night, 

And  sleep  well. 
May  your  dreams  be  sweet,  my  beloved. 

Good-night  my  beloved, 

Sweet,  good-night, 
God  watch  you  Himself,  loved, 

And  keep  you, 

Dear,  good-night, 

And  sleep  well. 
May  "our  dreams  be  of  me,  my  beloved. 


ARE  NOT,  ARE  $OT.  99 


AEE  NOT,  AEE  NOT. 

Are  not,  are  not, 

What  you  would  seem  to  be, 
Are  not,  are  not, 

True  as  you  seem  to  be. 
Your  beart  is  false,  I  see, 
Arid  you  care  nought  for  me. 
But  once,  but  once,  you  will  regret. 

Care  not,  care  not, 

If  you  love  me  or  no. 
Care  not,  care  not, 

If  you  forsake. 
Such  a  lover  as  you 
I  can  find  not  a  few, 
Better,  better  than  such  as  you. 


100  BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS, 


IT  IS  GOD'S  WILL. 

It  is  according  to  God's  will 

That  what  we  love  the  most  must  fade, 

Or  forsake. 

There's  nothing  that  our  hearts  so  fill 
With  sorrow  as  when  loved  things  fade, 

Or  forsake, 

Or  forsake. 

If  a  young  lassie,  full  of  grace, 
Should  chance  to  give  you  a  rosebud, 

Kemember, 

To-morrow  will  smile  in  your  face, 
But  at  eve  is  dead,  the  rosebud, 

Kemember, 

Remember. 

If  God  has  then  blessed  you  with  love, 
And  you  worship  a  lassie  true, 

From  your  heart, 

There'll  come  still  a  time  when  your  love 
Will  forsake  you,  and  not  be  true, 

But  forsake, 

But  forsake. 


SEA  UTIFUL  8TAR8.  101 


BEAUTIFUL  STARS. 

Oh,  beautiful  bright  stars, 

How  very  small  you  are. 
Once  you  used  to  give  me  pleasure, 
Once  you  used  to  give  me  pleasure, 
The  whole  live-long  evening. 

One  of  you  the  brightest, 

The  glorious  morning  star, 
Followed  me  with  its  golden  light, 
Followed  me  with  its  golden  light, 
To  the  home  of  my  love. 

Moon  amidst  the  high  clouds, 

How  far  off  you  are! 
So  far  off  is  my  beloved  one, 
So  far  off  is  my  beloved  one, 

From  my  reach  as  you  are. 


102  BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 


GOING  A- WOOING. 

When  our  Vit  went  a-wooing, 
Down  the  winding  lane, 
Not  a  cloud  was  in  the  sky 
To  betoken  rain. 

In  his  best  clothes  he  went  wooing, 
Starched -up  shirt  and  collar  showing 
Now  a  decent  lad  goes  wooing 
While  a  bachelor  still. 

When  he  came  back  from  his  wooing 
'Twas  a-pouring  rain; 
Drenched  he  was  from  head  to  foot — 
That  did  give  him  pain. 
Soaking  wet  was  all  his  clothing, 
And  they  mocked  him  well  for  going, 
While  they  looked  at  him  with  loathing 
In  his  sorry  plight. 

Poor  young  man,  this  had  not  happened 
Had  he  stayed  at  home, 
After  a  coquettish  maid 
It  is  hard  to  roam. 
While  she  frowned  upon  his  wooing, 
See  this  happened  to  him,  showing 
One  must  be  quite  sure  of  winning, 
Qr  the  girl  may  mock. 


MADE  OF  THE  EARTH.  103 


MADE  OF  THE  EAKTH. 

Made  of  the  earth,  to  earth  I  came 

And  on  the  earth  my  senses  found, 
Well  contented  that  the  same 

Earth  should  be  my  burying  ground. 
Lord  make  me  happy  then, 
Lord  make  me  happy  then. 

Where,  ah,  where,  are  the  loving  hands 

Of  my  long-lost  tender  mother, 
Who  rocked  me  with  hopeful  hands 
And  loved  me  as  no  other. 

When  I  was  a  wee  one, 
When  I  was  a  wee  one. 

They  are  no  more,  alas!  no  more! 

Long  they  sleep  in  the  cold,  dark  earth; 
How  forget  the  love  they  bore 

To  me,  and  their  honest  worth. 

How  thank  all  their  goodness, 
How  thank  all  their  goodness. 


104  BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 


THE  EAIK. 

It  rained  so  hard,  a  dreadful  rain, 

And  it  was  muddy, 

Ah,  so  very  muddy. 
Still  I  used  to  go  and  see  you 

In  spite  of  all  that, 

Ah,  in  spite  of  all  that. 
The  more  I  loved  you  true,  and  well, 
The  falser  were  you,  sad  to  tell; 

That  was  all  the  thanks, 

Ah,  that  was  all  the  thanks. 

The  nightingale  is  a  small  bird 

Very  hard  to  catch, 

Ah,  very  hard  to  catch. 
A  lover's  eyes  are  quick  to  see 

And  won't  be  deceived, 

Ah,  and  won't  be  deceived. 
Before  you  will  play  false  to  me, 
I'll  choose  a  soldier's  life  and  be 

A  warrior  free, 

Ah,  maid,  so  false  to  me. 

Do  you  dream  me  sorrow-stricken? 
Weighed  by  heartaches  down, 
Ah,  weighed  by  heartaches  down. 

Have  I  asked  you  for  your  daughter? 
That  you  think  me  blind, 
Ah,  that  you  think  me  blind. 

There  are  maidens  all  too  many, 

Like  the  berries  on  the  holly, 
When  one  looks  around, 
Ah,  when  one  looks  around. 


PRA  YER  ON  TEE  MO  UNTA1N  RIP.  105 


PRAYER  ON  THE  MOUNTAIN  RIP. 

Tired,  fatigued,  and  half  unconscious, 
Pilgrims  from  a  famished  country, 

From  a  land  of  sighs  and  wailing, 

We  pray,  sire  Cech,  for  our  country. 

Bless,  that  our  father's  strength  may  increase, 
That  our  infant  children  may  grow  strong. 

Bless,  that  our  skulls  be  hard  as  thy  rocks, 
To  withstand  the  evil  and  wrong, 

From  a  persecuted  land  we  call, 

Where  the  terrible  fiend  we  must  gorge — 
Where  the  Dragon  is  master  of  all, 

We  beseech  thee,  help  us,  St.  George! 

Give  us  strength  that  we  may  do  our  work, 

That  each  be  filled  from  on  high  with  strength. 

That  like  you  we  may  kill  the  Dragon 
With  a  spear,  and  conquer  at  length. 

From  the  mountain  top  where  we  can  see 

For  miles,  let  the  victorious  hymn  sound, 

For  our  country  again  it  is  free, 

And  ours  every  valley  and  mound. 

r  **' 


1 06  BOHEMIAN  L  EG  ENDS. 


COMFORT. 

Mortal,  if  this  earthly  sorrow, 

Loss  and  anguish  crush  thy  heart, 
If  thy  friends  forsake  and  hate  thee; 

If  thy  children  break  thy  heart, 
If  no  wish  of  thine  should  prosper — . 

Find  fulfillment  in  this  life; 
And  the  good  you  planned  and  strove  for 

Die  unknown  in  the  strife, 
Still  I  bid  thee  hope  and  suffer, 

Hope  in  God,  and  leave  thy  care — 
He  will  lay  no  more  upon  thee 

Than  He  gives  thee  strength  to  bear. 
So,  poor  heart,  new  courage  taking, 

Let  what  will,  with  thee  betide, 
Knowing  that  thy  God  is  mighty, 

And  Thy  Father  by  thy  side. 


SONGS  OF  THE  HE  A  VEN8.  J  07 


SONGS  OF  THE  HEAVENS. 


SONG  I. 

Oh,  most  beautiful  summer  night, 
Enraptured  my  soul  with  thy  light; 
In  the  daytime  'tis  suffocating, 
But  evening  is  invigorating. 

From  the  vaulted  heavens,  the  moon, 

Heaven's  old  father,  very  soon, 

With  silvery  light  all  over  the  world, 
Will  shine,  changing  water  to  pearl. 

Around  him  then  his  children  small, 
The  little  stars  good-hearted  all, 

With  their  golden  voices  seem  to  say, 
To-morrow  will  be  a  lovely  day. 

SONG  VI. 

Believe  me,  the  bright  stars  also  feel  pain, 
Much,  very  much,  troubles  them  sore — 
And  they  feel,  and  can  condole  with  our  pain, 
In  this  tearful  vale  of  sorrow. 

They  also  have  their  work,  around  the  sun, 
Round,  round  they  spin,  and  glide  and  shine; 
About  a  hundred  thousand  miles  they  run, 
Paid  only  by  a  span  of  life. 


108  BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 

They  also  have  to  work  themselves  to  death, 
And  martyrize  their  golden  forms. 
The  bright  haze  we  sometimes  see  is  their  breath, 
Which  we  vaguely  call  falling  stars. 

SONG   XII. 

All  the  bright,  fiery  stars, 

That  cluster  round  the  moon. 

Once  flew  away  from  the  sun 

To  shine  on  our  world  like  stars, 

But  they  were  cradled  in  the  sun. 

All  the  bright,  fiery  stars, 

After  their  destined  time, 
Must  fly  away  from  our  sky, 

For  the  sun  will  be  their  grave, 
And  there  the  gleaming  stars  shall  die. 

SONG  XXXVII. 

The  voice  of  the  prophet  said, 
That  all  that  live  must  also  die. 

Oh,  yes,  we  know  'tis  truth  he  said — 
Before  the  world  dies,  we  must  die. 

Whatever  blooms  will  also  fade — 
What   comes  to  earth,  must  from  earth  go — 

The  world's  poor  knowledge,  it  will  fade, 
Like  any  white  rose  that  doth  blow. 

And  so  the  thought  of  death  should  not 
Stab  our  poor  weary  human  heart. 

We  live,  and  outlive,  'tis  our  lot 
Examples  to  be,  'tis  our  part. 

Before  birth,  we  knew  not  the  earth — 
Nor  know  we  now  its  secret  power. 

We  cannot  even  know  our  earth — 

What  know  we  of  God's  mighty  power. 


SONGS  OF  THE  HE  A  YENS.  1 09 

And  should  calamity  overtake 

Our  world — well,  God  is  mighty  still. 

He  still  can  save  us  for  His  sake, 
All  might  is  His,  if  He  but  will. 

We  know  that  we  must  die — so  live 

That  when  we  die  our  lowly  grave 
Be  honored  by  the  souls  that  live, 

Let  fame  attend  us  to  our  grave. 


BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 


HAPPINESS  AND  MISERY. 

Oh,  happiness,  happiness, 

Is  a  fair  flower. 
Ah,  the  more  'tis  a  pity 

Its  roots  last  an  hour. 

Comes  a  wind,  it  is  broken, 

Water  has  power 
To  spoil  it  without  pity, 

It  lasts  but  an  hour. 

Oh,  misery,  misery, 
Most  bitter  thy  root. 

From  thee  never  a  flower 
Nor  leaf,  nor  green  shoot. 

Oh,  how  many,  how  many 
The  heart  that  mustache, 

At  hopes  unattainable, 
And  at  last  must  break. 


in 


SELF  SOUGHT. 

The  sweetest  kernel  is  always 

The  OTie  we  have  broken  ourselves; 

The  gold  that  we  prize  the  highest 
Is  the  one  we  have  delved  ourselves. 

The  pearl  that  we  count  the  purest 
We  have  robbed  ourselves  from  the  i 

And  the  truth  we  count  the  dearest 
Must  be  inborn  aiid  make  us  free. 


BOHEMIAN  LtiQMm 


TKUTH  MUST  CONQUER. 

There  were  always  people  ready 
To  prevent  the  sun  from  rising; 

Still  the  sun  did  rise  in  splendor, 
Eise  in  spite  of  all  their  railing. 

Yes,  he  rose  in  glory  shining 

On  the  high  hills,  the  plains,  the  vales, 
Eose  in  splendor  on  the  countries, 

On  the  blue  ocean  full  of  sails. 


/  REMIND  YOU.  113 


I  BEHIND  YOU. 

Say,  will  there  come  a  time  when  the  rich  man 
Will  be  ashamed  of  his  good  clothes  and  say, 
I  see  my  brother  man,  without  a  roof, 
Shivering  and  cold  upon  this  wintry  day. 
Say,  will  there  come  a  time  when  he  will  pause, 
And  throw  away  his  goblet  ere  he  drink, 
And  think  unto  himself,  my  fellow  men, 
For  want  of  bread,  around  me  in  death  sink. 

And  when  the  Holy  night,  the  birth,  of  Christ 
Brings  to  the  wealthy  child  the  Christmas  tree, 
Lailened  with  gifts,  and  lights,  the  poor  man's  child, 
In  his  poor  room,  says  sadly,  "  Naught  for  me?" 
Naught  but  the  flowers  on  his  frost-bound  pane. 
Is  this  the  love  of  neighbor,  like  one's  self? 
Oh,  Christ  of  God,  Thy  Kingdom  is  not  yet, 
We  are  not  ruled  by  love,  but  filthy  pelf. 

Oh,  that  Thy  kingdom,  nearer  to  our  earth, 
Thy  starry  kingdom,  would  draw  near  in  love, 
And  teach  our  human  hearts  to  know  and  feel 
The  blessedness  of  helping  man  above, 
The  degradation  that  makes  life  a  hell. 
Oh,  write  upon  your  banners,  "  Help  the  poor." 
Light  the  sad  eyes,  and  uhase  away  the  care; 
He  will  reward  you,  who  was  also  poor. 


1 14  BOllEMtAtf  L  EG  ENDS. 


THE  BOHEMIAN  MOTHER'S  TALE. 

He  was  not  like  the  other  boys, 

Who  only  cared  for  noisy  plays; 
He  used  to  throw  away  his  toys, 

And  lie  there  dreaming  half  his  days. 
He  was  an  idle  lad, 
Who  would  not  learn  at  school; 
But  I  can't  say  that  he  was  bad, 
Beyond  the  rule. 

He  was  not  strong  enough  to  work, 
To  do  the  drudgery  of  the  farm; 
His  father's  words  they  seemed  to  hurt, 

Though,  heaven  knows,  he  meant  no  "harm. 
The  boy  would  flush  with  pain, 
At  every  angry  tone; 
I've  often  watched  him  through  the  lane 
Walk  off  alone. 

A  boy  like  that  can  never  live, 

And  thrive,  iu  such  a  home  as  ours; 
I  therefore  thought  'tis  best  to  give 
A  boy  like  that  to  higher  powers. 
Within  the  convent  gate 
I  led  my  wayward  son, 
Right  thankful  was  I,  and  elate 
When  it  was  done. 

The  convent  stood  upon  a  hill; 

You  could  see  far  on  either  side; 
The  brothers  had  some  fields  to  till, 
And  they  had  forests  far  and  wide. 
They  taught  my  son  to  serve, 
And  also  how  to  pray. 
I  watched  him  often  with  the  herd, 
Pass  by  that  way. 


T1£JS  BOHEMIAN  MOTHER'S  TALE,          \\ 5 

One  day  there  came  an  artist  great; 

He  was  to  paint  the  convent  church. 
Alas!  it  was  my  poor  boy's  fate 
To  wait  upon  him  in  the  church; 
He  handed  him  his  paint, 
And  did  I  know  not  what. 
It  smelt  so  bad,  he  felt  quite  faint, 
And  rued  his  lot. 

Yet  I  must  say  he  painted  well; 

The  saints  alone  would  bring  him  fame. 
My  boy  had  something  new  to  tell 
And  show  me  every  time  I  came. 
Oh,  give  me  peace,  I  said, 
Such  things  are  not  for  you. 
Go  lead  the  life  that  you  have  led, 
In  that  be  true. 

He  answered  nothing,  but  I  saw 

He  thought  the  more,  though  he  was  still. 
I  mocked  him  that  he  wished  to  draw, 
And  told  him  then  his  father's  will, 
That  he  should  learn  a  trade, 
Thereby  to  win  his  bread, 
Since  he  for  hard  work  was  not  made, 
Every  one  said. 

That  night  he  kissed  me  when  I  went, 
He  begged  my  blessing  on  his  head; 
He  said  that  he  had  never  meant 
To  grieve  me  by  the  words  he  said; 
And  I  was  glad  to  hear 
Such  words  from  him  at  last, 
For  I  had  always  had  a  fear 
His  dream  would  last. 

To  make  a  long,  long  story  short, 

My  boy  fled  from  his  convent  cell; 
But  he  was  one  of  the  right  sort, 
And  learned  to  draw  both  quick  and  well. 
He  made  himself  a  way, 
Far  oif  in  the  great  town — 
He  slept,  indeed,  I  heard  them  say, 
On  eider  down, 


116  BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 

I  often  wondered  that  my  lad 

Lived  in  such  wealth,  and  sent  me  naught, 
His  father  said  that  he  was  bad, 
'Twas  only  for  himself  he  wrought; 
And  so  years  passed  away; 
My  poor  eyes  they  grew  dim. 
At  length  there  came  a  knock  one  day, 
And  it  was  him. 

My  God!  and  was  that  then  my  son, 

That  skeleton,  that  scarce  could  walk! 
One  say  at  once  his  life  was  done, 
He  hardly  had  the  strength  to  talk. 
We  bore  him  to  his  bed, 
And  I  sat  by  his  side, 
And  every  word  was  kind  we  said, 
Until  he  died. 

It  seemed  that  it  was  all  a  lie, 

About  that  wealth  they  said  he  had; 
He  lived  up  in  a  garret  high, 

And  starved  himself  to  death,  my  lad. 
He  won  the  prize,  you  say, 
The  greatest  prize  they  give. 
What  care  I  for  the  words  they  say, 
Or  things  they  give? 

Not  long  ago  they  came  to  look 

Upon  the  house  where  he  was  born; 
On  all  the  things  that  he  forsook 
To  go  and  lead  that  life  forlorn. 
One  said,  "  He  asked  for  aid 
And  I  refused  him  then." 
Another  said,  "  Would  I  had  staid, 
Up  in  his  den." 

They  told  me  that  my  boy  was  great, 

I  could  be  proud  of  such  a  son; 
And  they  lamented  much  his  fate 
And  sorrowed  that  his  life  was  done. 
And  wherefor  did  he  die? 
Alas!  you  know  too  well. 
Neglect  and  want,  the  reason  why, 
Tw  sad  to  tell, 


Tim  BOHEMIAN  MOTHER'S  TALE  11? 

No  hand  was  stretched  to  help  my  boy, 

What  care  I  what  stands  o'er  his  grave 
Yonr  monuments  bring  me  no  joy, 
Nor  can  they  now,  my  poor  boy  save. 
Amidst  the  angel  band 
Beyond  the  troubled  sea, 
My  wayward  youngest  born  now  stands, 
And  waits  for  me. 


ii§ 


THE  BOHEMIAN  MONK. 


I  have  steeped  my  soul  in  knowledge, 
Till  my  weary  heart  is  faint; 

And  I  sit  now  in  my  chamber 
Gazing  sadly  at  the  Saint, 

At  the  Saint  whose  name  I  bear, 

With  the  halo  round  his  hair. 


Does  he  look  upon  me  wondering, 
That  I  bartered  life  for  fame. 

He,  the  preacher  to  the  Gentiles, 
AVould  he  have  me  do  the  same? 

Hush,  wild  thoughts,  for  I  am  old, 

And  my  weary  heart  is  cold. 


In  my  youth  I  yearned  for  knowledge, 
And  I  quaffed  with  burning  lips 

All  the  learning  that  the  convent 
Gives  its  students  in  small  sips. 

Then  I  went  to  college  old, 

And  my  youth  for  knowledge  sold. 


Yes,  fame  came  with  laurels  crowning 
This  poor  head  of  mine  in  youth; 

And  my  name  was  held  in  honor, 
For  my  words  were  words  of  truth, 

And  my  convent  cell  was  sought 

For  the  learning  that  I  taught. 


i  j  0 


Was  it  wrong  to  yearn  for  knowledge? 

Knowledge  that  must  pass  away  — 
Sometimes  as  I  sit  and  ponder, 

I  can  see  another  way, 
To  a  glory  without  end, 
Never  yet  by  mortal  penned. 

Sometimes  as  I  sit  and  think 

Of  the  days  of  long  ago, 
I  can  see  the  martyrs  kneeling 

To  receive  the  fatal  blow; 
And  I  almost  seem  to  hear 
Angels  calling,  "  Have  no  fear." 

And  I  look  around  my  chamber, 

Stored  with  books  and  parchments  rare; 

And  my  heart  is  sick  of  knowledge, 
And  I  wish  that  I  was  there, 

Where  earth's  thirst  is  quenched  for  aye, 

And  night  turns  to  endless  day. 

Oh,  my  master,  midst  my  learning 
Seldom  I  have  thought  of  Thee; 

And  I  taught  my  students  knowledge, 
But  I  never  spoke  of  Thee. 

Now  I  dread  to  hear  Thee  say, 
'  Slothful  servant,  go  away." 

Oh,  my  master,  in  Thy  mercy 

Spare  me  yet  another  year; 
Let  me  speak  in  words  undying 

To  the  youths  who  come  to  hear. 
Give  me  strength  to  warn  and  guide 
These  few  striplings  to  Thy  side. 

And  if  one  of  them  should  hearing, 
Yearn  for  that  high  crown  of  life 

Which  I  missed  with  all  my  learning, 
Oh,  God,  fit  him  for  the  strife, 

And  then  take  me  weary,  old, 

Where  Thy  face  I  can  behold, 


120  BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 


FAREWELL. 

Before  my  charger  bears  me  to  the  battle, 

Upon  the  Elba  plain, 

I  come  again  to  see  thee,  dearest, 

And  'neath  thy  chamber  window,  sweetest, 

Plant  a  snowball  bush  by  the  same. 

Should  it  in  early  spring  be  green  with  leaflets, 

And  many  blossoms  fair, 

Think  of  me,  then,  oh  my  precious  one, 

Riding  home,  and  the  battle  well  won, 

To  you,  the  fairest  of  the  fair. 

But  should  the  stem  in  spring  be  dried  and  leafless, 

Without  bud  or  flower, 

Think  of  me,  then,  in  some  far-off  plain, 

By  the  enemy's  swords  lying  slain — 

And  that  I  blessed  thee  In  that  hour. 


THE  WAY  IS  LONG. 


THE  WAY  IS  LONG. 

Very  long  the  footpath,  li edged  on  either  side, 
As  I  trod  it  sadly.     "  Friends,  farewell,"  1  cried. 
Farewell  I  have  said  now,  unto  all  I  love, 
Hamlet  of  my  parents,  "  Farewell,  with  my  love." 

Ah,  where  are  the  hours  of  my  happy  youth? 
A  thousand  pities,  they  have  passed  forsooth! 
Fate  returns  us  nothing  that  she  takes  away, 
Only  this,  she  brings  us  pain  and  grief  each  day. 

Mother  sleeps  in  graveyard,  father  by  her  lies, 
Will  the  dawn  of  Heaven  bring  them  to  my  eyes? 
When  my  heart  thinks  of  them,  sorrowful  I  say, 
Will  the  grave  bring  me  what  life  took  away? 


POEM  V.— SONG.     ' 

On  our  cottage  roof  lies  snow, 

Frozen  snow  to-day; 
And  beneath  my  mother  lies, 

Fading  fast  away. 

In  the  spring,  when  the  snow  melts 

In  the  garden  near, 
On  my  mother's  grave  the  wind 

Wakes  the  grass,  I  fear. 


/  tfSED  To  THINK 


I  USED  TO  THINK. 

Oft  I  used  to  think  of  far-reaching  lanes, 
Of  flowery  banks,  and  palmy  plains. 

Of  lonely  lion  in  his  kingdom  vast, 
Of  ruined  cities,  and  of  all  the  past. 

Of  mountain  ranges,  of  the  ocean's  swell, 
Of  golden  castles,  crystal  sea  as  well. 

But  now,  oh  God,  I  think  of  nothing  more, 
But  of  the  darling,  and  the  love  I  bore. 

Now  I  only  think,  in  cold  and  in  snow, 
If  you  lonely  feel  in  your  mound  so  low? 

If  you  lonely  feel  in  your  coffin  narrow, 
Metal  bound  and  strong,  but  oh  so  narrow? 

And  I  think  perhaps  my  little  one  sees  me, 
And  my  heart  is  faint,  and  my  tears  fall  free. 

And  I  think,  yes  day  and  night,  I  ponder — 
F earest  thou  in  thy  white  shroud,  over  yonder? 

Then  the  thought  comes  o'er  me,  thou  wilt  take  me; 
As  I  took  thee  in  my  arms,  and  hushed  thee 

When  you  used  to  cry,  and  my  soul  grows  weak, 
And  my  heart  weeps  for  the  child  it  would  seek. 

And  I  think  that  after  this  sad  sorrow, 
I  shall  clasp  thee  in  the  great  to-morrow. 


THE  WEDDING. 

She  stands  near  to  the  altar — 
Her  eyes  are  filled  with  tears. 
The  old  priest  weds  the  stripling 
Unto  the  girl  she  fears. 

Draw  her  kerchief  low,  I  pray — 
Hide  her  red  eyes  weeping; 
Sobbing  as  if  heart  should  break, 
She  looks  on  his  wedding. 

Wrap  a  garment  round  her  head — 
Head  that  ached  so  madly. 
Ah,  alas!  they  bear  her  forth, 
From  the  wedding  sadly. 


BONG  I. 


SONG  X. 

Calm  have  grown  now  our  hearts, 
Very  caltn  and  still,  my  God. 

Never  think  we  of  the  past, 

What  we  were,  and  used  to  land. 

If  we  thought  our  hearts  would  ache, 
And  despair  would  crown  our  brow; 

Of  the  men  we  might  have  been, 
And  the  beings  we  are  now. 


BOUSMUX 


THE  FOREST  NYMPH. 

"  Wander  not  in  the  dark  forest, 

Where  a  woman  roams  at  will, 

And  that  woman  is  a  wood  nymph, 

Charming  hearts  to  every  ill." 

"  Charming  hearts?  With  what,  my  mother?' 
"  With  her  eyes  of  teuderest  blue — 
But  a  little  while  it  lasteth— - 
But  a  day,  and  then  they  rue. 

"  Treacherous  is  that  nymph  of  forest, 

Many  youths  hath  led  astray; 
Many  she  has  left  heart-broken, 
Many  she  has  killed  away." 

"  And  where  wanders  she,  my  mother?" 
"  By  a  rock,  near  fir  trees  tall. 
She  is  queen  of  all  the  wood  nymphs, 
And  the  forest  hidden  thrall. 

"  When  the  moon  at  full  is  shining, 

On  the  trees  and  creeping  things, 
She  goes  wandering  in  the  forest, 
And  a  wondrous  song  she  sings. 

"  Wander  not  in  the  dark  forest, 

Where  a  woman  roams  at  will, 

And  this  woman  is  a  wood  nymph, 

Charming  hearts  to  every  ill." 

The  day  is  passed,  night  draweth  near, 

He  kissed  his  mother  softly, 
"  Good-night,"  he  said,  "  may  Heaven  send 
A  dream  most  fair  and  lovely." 


THE  FOREST  NYMPH.  127 

The  night  advanced,  the  moon  came  forth, 

Upon  his  bed  he  watched  her. 
He  thought  upon  the  lovely  nymph, 

He  longed  to  go  and  see  her. 

The  moon  rose  high  its  silvery  sheen, 

Danced  in  the  forest's  gloom; 
And  every  dark  twig  beckoned  now, 

And  called  him  to  his  doom. 

The  youth  sat  up — he  quickly  thought — 

Too  quickly — then  arose, 
With  hasty  care  he  clothed  himself 

With  his  best  Sunday  clothes. 

He  smoothed  his  coat,  then  slipped  behind 

The  cottage,  walking  quickly. 
He  reached  the  rock,  with  fir  trees  dark, 

That  looked  down  wickedly. 

Upon  a  rock,  beneath  a  fir, 

The  forest  nymph  is  singing. 
The  youth  came  quickly  to  her  side, 

In  her  blue  eyes  he's  gazing. 

Oh,  those  blue  eyes,  so  soft  and  fair — 

Entice  the  poor  boy's  passion; 
His  heart  throbs  with  his  new-born  love, 

In  an  unwonted  fashion. 

Before  she  ended  all  was  lost — 

He  clasped  her  in  his  arms; 
The  forest  trees  looked  darkly  down, 

The  moon  shone  with  her  charms. 

They  kissed  each  other  many  times, 
And  then  the  nymph  said  slowly, 
:  Promise  me,  youth,  no  other  lips 
You'll  kiss,  however  holy?" 

He  promised — and  went  home  at  last, 

But  sleep  had  fled  away. 
The  moon  grew  pale,  his  mother  rose, 

He  too,  rose  up  that  day. 


128  BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS, 

"  But  why  so  pale  and  wan,  my  son — 
Say,  have  you  any  pain?" 

"  I  could  not  sleep  the  whole  night  long, 
For  the  moonlight  shining  plain." 

And  when  his  mother  slept  in  peoae, 
And  all  the  stars  were  shining, 

The  youth  beheld  her  once  again, 
Amidst  the  pine  trees  sighing. 

He  saw  the  woman — heard  her  song, 

Eesound  in  forest  lonely. 
Before  the  youth  she  glided  on, 

He  followed  somewhat  slowly. 

He  followed,  followed  on  her  steps — 

A  precipice  is  yawning — 
She  glides  before — he  steps  behind — 

Alas!  love  and  its  longing! 

In  the  dark  field,  beneath  the  rock, 
On  moss  the  youth  lies  sleeping, 

On  high  the  pale  moon  casts  her  light 
On  the  dead  face,  past  weeping. 

At  home  his  mother  sorrows  sad; 

The  wood  nymph  killed  her  sou. 
Because  he  kissed  his  mother  dear, 

The  poor  youth's  days  were  done. 


GKASS.  129 


GKASS. 

Not  beyond  the  ocean, 

Not  beyond  the  hill. 
Only  a  tuft  of  grass 

Grows  between  us  still. 
Beyond  the  hill  birds  fly, 

Winds  blow  o'er  the  sea. 
But  still  that  tuft  of  grass 

Grows  'twixt  you  and  me. 


10 


1 30  BOHEMIAN  L  EGENDS. 


SONG  XX. 

You  ask  how  I  would  like  to  die? 
Toward  evening  in  the  month  of  May, 
Where  dancing  shadows  love  to  play, 
In  jessamine  bovver,  where  harebells  sway, 
On  some  fair  day,  I'd  pass  away. 

You  ask  how  I  would  like  to  die? 
Where  blue  forget-me-nots  are  seen, 
And  perfumed  roses,  purple  sheen, 
Would  play  on  lips  and  breast,  I  ween, 
When  my  sick  heart  should  end  its  dream. 


MYRTLE.  13J 


MYRTLE. 

Plant  a  slip  of  myrtle  green, 
Plant  a  slip,  my  maiden; 

For  your  wedding  it  will  be, 
For  a  wreath,  my  maiden. 

When  she  planted  it  with  joy, 
To  the  war  he  had  to  go; 

And  before  the  myrtle  bloomed, 
Ah,  she  was  lying  low. 

When  he  came  back  from  the  war, 
Myrtles  they  were  seeking. 

From  her  tree  they  cut  a  twig, 
For  his  coffin  weeping. 


1 3  I  BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 


MATER  DOLOROSA. 

I  wander  from  the  cloister, 

Adown  the  valley  green. 
The  spring  air  wakes  my  fancies, 

The  dreams  that  might  have  been. 

The  picture  of  God's  mother, 
Hangs  from  the  linden  tree. 

My  soul  it  starts  with  memories — 
Forgotten  dreams  I  see. 

Ah,  strange  this  picture  hidden, 

Half  hid  by  flowrets  fair, 
Was  hung  there  by  my  mother, 

Years,  years  ago,  just  there. 

Not  long  ago  I  gazing, 

Upon  the  picture  felt 
Within  my  soul  a  sorrow — 

A  bitterness  there  dwelt. 

And  while  I  look  it  changes; 

My  mother's  face  I  see. 
The  features  calm  in  prayer — 

That  prayer  is  for  me. 

The  eyes  with  tear-drops  heavy, 

The  lips  drawn  for  a  kiss; 
My  mother's  face  the  last  time 

She  kissed  my  brow  in  bliss. 

And  back  I  wander  slowly, 

Beneath  the  trees  alone, 
While  thoughts  of  spring  and  sweetness, 

My  God,  from  me  have  flown. 


MYRTLE  GTPBESS.  133 


MYRTLE  CYPRESS. 

Oh  happy  we!    Our  highest  wish  fulfilled! 
The  myrtle  thine— the  cypress  I  have  willed. 

Who  wished  the  sun,  will  ere  the  battle  wane, 
Be  glad  of  moon  and  stars,  to  ease  his  pain. 

The  myrtle  take,  the  cypress  leave  for  me — 
Whose  fault  is  it,  in  graveyards  it  grows  free. 

Perhaps  its  branches  singing  in  the  air, 

Peace  to  thy  soul  will  bring,  and  dreams  most  fair. 

Then  will  that  grave  of  mine  with  roses  bloom. 
Be  thou  but  happy,  happy  in  thy  doom. 


134;  BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 


FLAX. 

All  day  long, 

My  wheel  strong, 

Drives  the  flaxen  thread  along. 
From  the  linen  what  will  be? 
He  who  waits  will  surely  see — 

A  shirt  as  white  as  lily. 

Weaver  mine, 

Take  this  twine, 

Weave  it  quickly,  weaver  mine. 
Linen  thin,  and  soft  and  white; 
Maiden  shirts,  for  my  delight — 

For  his  mother,  see,  a  shroud. 


THtt  OLD  BAC8ELOH.  1*5 


THE  OLD  BACHELOR. 

If  I  only  had  a  wife, 

Surely  Fd  drink  water. 
In  a  beer  room,  by  my  life, 

Never  I  would  saunter. 

If  I  only  had  a  wife, 

I'd  go  home  at  evening; 
Not  a  friend,   and  not  a  strife, 

Then  would  stop  my  leaving. 

If  I  only  had  a  wife, 

A  simple  forest  thrush, 
I  would  sing,  and  I  would  fife, 

At  home,  till  she  said,  "  Hush.' 

If  I  only  had  a  wife, 
"Were  she  little  and  wee, 

I'd  stay  by  her,  by  my  life, 
And  ne'er  go  on  a  spree. 


BATTLE. 

Two  hundred  thousand  men  stand  like  a  rock, 
While  two  hundred  thousand  rush  to  the  shock. 

Two  hundred  thousand  brains  throb  like  fire, 
Which  will  storm  the  hill?  meet  the  lightning's  ire? 

Four  hundred  thousand  lips  mutter  an  oath — 
With  wolfs  eyes  they  glare,  carnage  nothing  loath. 

Between  two  hills,  the  vale  is  filled  with  mist, 
A  smiling  king  stands  on  each  hill,  I  wist. 

With  sidelong  look  they  watch  each  other's  face, 
And  speed  "  Good-morning  "    to  each  other's  place. 

Frowns  on  their  brows — hate  lurking  in  their  eyes, 
'Neath  purple  robes  are  hid  hands  white  and  wise. 

Two  kings  upon  two  hills,   their  palms  spread  out, 
Four  hundred  thousand   men  rush  with  a  shout. 

Ten  thousand  souls  shriek  out  in  mortal  pain, 
The  kings  applaud  the  music,  "  Call  again." 

Thousands  of  dying  men  at  eve  lie  low, 
The  kings  gaze  as  at  an  opera  show. 

A  hundred  thousand  men  rush  in  wild  flight, 
One  of  the  kings  says  smiling,  "  A  fine  sight/' 

One  king  smiles  and  sets  his  throne  higher, 
The  other  bows  low  before  the  slyer. 

Thousands  lying,  dying  on  the  heather — 
The  two  kings  and  generals  drink  together. 


PILQHIM. 


PILGEIM. 

On  my  hat  a  feather, 

In  my  hand  a  staff, 
I  have  wandered  slowly, 

The  world's  better  half. 

Far  away  from  your  heart, 

Far  and  far  away, 
When  I  could  not  think,  heart, 

Then  I  sang  all  day. 

On  my  hat  a  feather, 

In  my  heart  a  pain, 
I  have  wandered  slowly, 

O'er  and  o'er  the  plain. 

But  at  length  I  turned  me, 
Once  more  to  the  past. 

Useless  to  forget  thee — 
Heart,  I  came  at  last. 


VIOLETS  BLOOM  IN  SPKING. 

The  violets  flower  in  spring, 

And  the  heath  in  autumn  gray. 
Too  late  to  love  to-morrow, 
If  you  have  not  loved  to-day. 
The  world  is  full  of  maidens, 

Like  poppies,  blooming  free. 
If  one  of  them  was  mine, 
How  happy  I  would  be! 

I'd  give  her  half  my  homestead, 

And  many  a  silver  dime, 
But  roses  prick  the  bachelor, 

That  would  pluck  them  out  of  time. 
For  violets  flower  in  spring, 

And  the  heath  in  autumn  gray; 
I  mocked  the  girls  in  my  youth, 
They  laugh  at  me  to-day. 


xj       j> 


WHEN  THE  DA  Y  ENDS.  139 


WHEN  THE  DAY  ENDS. 

When  the  day  ends,  and  I  shall  sleep, 
Come  see  my  grave,  but  do  not  weep, 
Nor  let  your  grief  be  over  wild. 

Who  sleeps,  is  glad  to  rest  in  peace, 
And  holy  is  the  evening  mild, 

When  the  day  ends. 

I  loved  you  and  you  ^now  it  well, 
How  much  you  helped  me,  can  I  tell? 
How  many  pains  and  tears  you  dried — 

Then  come  and  softly  say,  "  You  sleep, 
But  we  shall  meet  somewhere  at  last, 

Because  we  loved." 


140  BOHEMIAN  LfflfiNDS, 


ACH,  NO— THOU  SLEEPEST. 

It  seems  to  me,  that  in  the  spring's  sweet  air, 
Thy  childish  voice  I  almost  seem  to  hear, 

So  far  away — so  far  up  in  the  air — 
From  where  the  lark  up  in  the  vaulted  sphere 

Sings,  and  my  heart  goes  out  to  meet  thee  there — 
Ach,  no — thou  sleepest! 

It  seems  to  me,  when  I  kneel  by  thy  mound 
Crossing  myself,  with  folded  hands  I  pray, 

Thou  nestles  to  my  sorrowing  heart,  and  round 
Thy  presence  lingers  as  it  used  to  stay, 

And  in  thy  eyes  I  gaze  without  a  sound — 
Ach,  no — thou  sleepest. 


TSS  NATION.  141 


CONCORD  IN  THE  NATION.* 

Concord,  brothers!  Stand  by  our  mother — 

Our  mighty  mother — our  only  love. 
And  let  the  light  of  our  glorious  past 

Shine  on  the  lion  flag  from  above. 
Long  sleep  has  made  us  once  more  strong, 

The  future  will  us  honor  yield. 
Only  concord,  concord,  brothers, 

Shield  us,  St.  Vaclav,  with  thy  shield,  f 

Ah,  once  the  sun  of  glory  shining, 

Illustrious  made  Bohemia's  name. 
From  the  Baltic  to  the  Adriatic, 

Our  native  land  was  known  to  fame. 
The  sun  shone,  and  our  land  was  great, 

From  mountain  top  to  fruitful  field. 
Only  concord,  concord,  brothers, 

Shield  us,  St.  Vaclav,  with  thy  shield. 

Bohemia  spake,  and  the  world  trembled — 

From  far  and  wide  they  quaking  heard. 
She  raised  her  voice  to  God,  and  heaven, 

By  holy  song  of  hers,  was  stirred. 
It  was  Bohemia's  voice  that  sang, 

The  truth  that  from  her  mountains  pealed. 
Only  concord,  concord,  brothers, 

Shield  us,  St.  Vaclav,  with  thy  shield.    ' 

Oh,  for  the  true  words,  and  the  true  faith, 

Of  our  Cyril  and  Methodej. 
Bohemia  on  the  bloody  mountains 

Lost  their  freedom  through  faith  in  you. 

*  This  poem  received  the  poetic  prize  in  Prague. 

•}  St.  Vaclav  (Wenzel),  patron  saint  of  Bohemia,  was  murdered 
b7  his  brother,  a  heathen,  in  a  church,  He  was  king  of  Bohemia, 
A.D.  928.  Murdered  by  Boleslav. 


142  BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 

Knock,  oh,  Bohemians!  on  your  hills, 

There  sleep  the  brave  who  would  not  yield. 

Only  concord,  concord,  brothers, 
Shield  us,  St.  Vaclav,  with  thy  shield. 

Yes,  there  is  honor  in  a  downfall 

After  a  most  desperate  warfare. 
When  the  land  lies  crushed,  but  not  conquered- 

For  the  free  soul  still  lingers  there. 
Like  the  phoenix  from  dead  ashes, 

Warriors  arise  from  our  fields. 
Onlv  concord,  concord,  brothers, 

Shield  us,  St.  Vaclav,  with  thy  shield. 

My  country,  my  poor  blinded  country — 

What  fate  now  can  cause  thee  to  blaze? 
You  see  not  the  blood  that  is  streaming, 

To  springs  of  the  far-away  days. 
It  blazes  the  blood  on  our  hills — 

It  calls  us  never  to  yield. 
Only  concord,  concord;  brothers, 

Shield  us,  St.  Vaclav,  with  thy  shield. 

The  bones  of  our  fathers  are  scattered — 

Their  blood  it  is  chill  now  in  death. 
From  their  bones  will  rise  up  the  giants, 

Their  blood  is  the  red  morning's  breath. 
The  red  clouds  call  us  to  glory, 

They  smile  on  us  never  to  yield. 
Only  concord,  concord,  brothers, 

Shield  us,  St.  Vaclav,  with  thy  shield. 


With  concord — then  on  to  the  battle, 

The  east  is  ablaze— and  I  dream, 
I  hope  that  the  hour  is  n earing, 

When  the  God  of  nations  will  seem 
To  call  us  once  more  unto  fame, 

Once  more  to  the  honorable  field. 
Only  concord,  concord,  brothers, 

Shield  us,  St.  Vaclav,  with  thy  shield. 


MOUNTAIN  BALLAD.  143 


MOUNTAIN  BALLAD. 

"  Tell  me,  granny,  granny  dearest,   what  will  heal  a 

wound, 
Heal  the  cut  of  one  sore  wounded,  that  he  will  not 

die?" 

"  Open  wounds  on  human  bodies  are  not  easily  closed, 
Only  the  juice  of.  witches'  herb  heals  beneath  the 

sky." 
"  Tell  me,  granny,  granny  dearest,  what  will  ease  the 

pain, 
Heal  the  pain  of  one  sore  tortured,  wounds  on  head 

and  brow?  " 
For  such  wounds  on  brow  'and  forehead,  there  is  but 

one  aid, 

Leaves  of  the  forest  strawberry,  laid   on   aching 
brow. 

The  little  child  in  haste  went  to  the  neighbor's  pas- 
ture, 
"  Oh,  give  me  of  thy  juice,  witches'  herb,  that  heals  all 

Eain." 
:om   the  meadow   to  the  forest's  shade  she 
wandered, 
"  Oh,  strawberry  of  God,  give  me  of  thy  leaves  that 

heal  all  pain." 

All  that  she  wanted,  see,  the  flowers  gave  her  gladly, 
And  to  the  church  she  ran,  where  Christ  before  the 

altar, 
Outstretched  upon  the  cross  of  shame,  bows  his  dying 

head. 

"  On   Thy  holy  side,  Jesus  mine,  I  will  not  falter, 
But  lay  the  healing  herbs  on  Thy  side  and  bloody 

brow, 

Then  all  the  pain  will  cease  from  Thy  side  and 
wounded  brow. 


144  BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 

In  the  church  steeple,  lo!  the  bells  are  rung  clear, 
And  many  people  came  from  far  and  near; 
For  what  the  little  child  had  wished  to  do, 
God  had  fulfilled,  the  wounds  were  closed  anew. 

In  that  mountain  village  still  they  show  the  picture. 

Healed  are  the  wounds  of  Che  crucified  one,  and  in- 
stead 

Of  the  crown  of  thorns  ar\s  iUies  that  droop  o'er  the 
dead. 

. 


6ADDLX  MY  G8A&&S&  145 


SADDLE  MY  CHARGER. 

"  Like  the  wild  storm,  I  would  fly  through  the  air — 
Saddle  my  horse!  In  the  forest  I'll  dare!  " 
"  Lady,  my  lady!  the  rocks  seem  to  shake, 
While  the  heavens  with  lightning  are  flaming, 
In  the  storm  the  forest  moans  like  a  lake — 
Oh,  go  not  my  lady — 'Tis  awful  to-day!  " 

"  With  lightning  and  wind  111  ride  for  a  stake! 
Go  saddle  my  charger — make  no  mistake/' 
"  Lady,  my  lady!  Oh,  risk  not  your  life, 
Wild  beasts  in  the  forest  prowl  to-night, 
And  foxes  are  howling  amidst  the  strife, 
Who  knows  if  the  forest  you'd  leave  alive?" 

*  To  hunt  the  wild  beasts  in  storm  is  delight, 
Saddle!  The  fox  with  my  spear  I'll  kill  outright!  " 
"  Lady,  oh  listen!  Your  lord  comes  to-day — 
Will  you  not  welcome  him  back  to  his  home? 
You  know  he'll  repav  you — revenge  his  way! 
Stay  at  home  lady!  Dreadful  is  your  lord!/' 

"  I  know  it!  Him  only  I  dread  to-day — 
With  the  whirlwind  I'll  fly  out  of  his  way! 
Terrible  is  it  to  live  in  his  sight. 
Awful  to  meet  him,  no  love  in  my  heart — 
Saddle!  Let  me  hide  myself  from  his  might! 
With  whirlwind  and  foxes  'tis  easier  to  fight." 


14S  BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 


THE  SPINNING  GIKL. 

"  What  are  you  spinning,  my  sister,  day  by  day, 
That  your  tears  fall  on  the  soft  flax  in  this  way?  " 

"  My  tears  they  fall   with  grief,  o'er  my  love's  short 

d  ream ! 
What  I  spin?  Why  my  wedding  garment  I  ween." 

"  What  spin  you  at  night — that  no  dreams  make  you 

doze, 
When  no  wedding  you'll  have, "sister  mine,  these  days?" 

"  No  bridal  I'll  have,  but  my  lover  will  wed, 
To  his  wedding  I'll  go  in  white  dress,  I  have  said." 

"  What  spin  you  in  haste,  by  the  moon's  pale  ray? 
Does  your  lover  haste  to  the  altar,  I  say?" 

t(  I  must  hasten,  my  brother,  the  time  is  near — 
In  my  shroud  I  am  spinning  the  moonlight  drear." 

The  bells  are  tolling  reproachfully  and  slow — 
To  her  grave  they  bear  the  spinner,  lying  low. 

Why  are  the  bells  pealing,  so  gladsome  and  clear, 
For  a  wedding  they  ring,  with  their  noisy  cheer. 

But  at  night  when  the  lovers  are  kissing  sweet, 
At  midnight  the  dead  rise  in  their  winding  sheet. 

"  My  bride,  oh,  who  is  it,  that  comes  to  us  see?  " 
"  'Tis  the  moon — there  is  no  one  but  you  and  me." 


¥UE  SPlNNiM  dltlL  14? 

"  "Who  kisses  my  forehead?  Whose  tears  on  my  cheek?  " 
"  The  dew  of  evening,  or  perhaps  the  moon  freak." 

"  No,  'tis  my  dead  bride!  See  in  the  midnight  cold, 
Her  dress  in  the  moonlight  shines  fold  upon  fold. 

"  She  waves  me  a  farewell,  adieu  seems  to  say, 
Then  beckons  me  onward  to  follow  her  way. 

"  I  follow!  By  power  of  witchcraft  drawn  on!" 

"  My  lover!  What  madness  is  this,  strange  and  strong." 

He  climbs  through  the  window,  and  stands  on  the 

sill, 
"  Keep  hold!  Now  alone  God  can  save  if  He  will!" 

The  moonlight  is  drawing  him — dizzy  the  height — 
Life's  burden  has  passed  from  him  into  the  night 

"  Stop  lover!  One  step  and  death  stands  in  your  way!" 
Where  he  stood,   falls  undimmed   the   moonlight's 
ray. 

The  moonlight  shines  clear  on  the  river's  white  bed, 
Where  he  and  the  spinner  united  lie  dead. 


BOHEMIAN  LJSGWD& 


FORSAKEN. 

Weep,  my  maiden,  weep  and  cry, 
*   To  your  lover  say  farewell. 
To  the  only  one  you  love — 
He  who  in  your  heart  doth  dwell. 

Drafted  in  the  warrior  band, 
Far  away  he'll  have  to  serve. 

May  be,  in  the  living  land, 
You  will  see  his  face  no  more. 

Oh,  that  I  were  in  my  grave, 
Deep  beneath  the  emerald  grass, 

O'er  my  mound  a  heavy  cross, 
Pressing  my  poor  head,  alas! 

Then  two  eyes  would  only  weep, 

Where  four  now  are  bathed  in  tears; 

Then  two  eyes  would  only  burn 
With  the  scalding,  bitter  tears. 


SMITH'S  SONG.  140 


SMITH'S  SONG. 

No  man  greater  than  a  blacksmith, 
Honest,  sturdy  is  the  blacksmith; 
Firm  upon  his  feet  he  standeth, 

Dealing  heavy  blow  on  blow. 
With  quick  hand  his  axe  he  handeth, 

Many  works  before  him  grow. 
And  so,  and  so, 
Blow  upon  blow, 

Like  thunder  they  fall  on  the  anvil,  and  lo! 
He  misses  the  iron  by  never  a  blow. 

Blacksmiths,  like  all  things  in  keeping, 
Heavy  blows,  and  not  much  speaking, 
Manly  speech  and  diligent  work, 

Heart  for  every  noble  thing. 
And  so  we  hear  him  at  his  work, 

Dealing  blows  that  loudly  ring, 
And  so,  and  so, 
Blow  upon  blow, 

Like  thunder  they  fall  on  the  anvil,  and  lo! 
He  misses  the  iron  by  never  a  blow. 

The  blacksmith  is  a  man  of  truth, 
At  home,  or  in  the  world,  forsooth. 
The  crooked  he  makes  straight,  the  bad 

He  throws  away  in  the  dark. 
A  lover  of  the  law,  not  sad, 

He  deals  his  heavy  blows,  hark! 
And  so,  and  so. 
Blow  upon  blow, 

Like  thunder  they  fall  on  the  anvil,  and  lo! 
Ho  misses  the  iron  by  never  a  bloT. 


150  BOHEMIA  ft  LMEtfl)8. 

The  blacksmith  is  a  friend  of  toil, 
He  waits  his  time  in  the  turmoil. 
Until  the  iron  has  turned  red, 

Then  lets  the  blow  fall  quickly. 
A  thorough  Check,*  without  a  dread, 

A  smith,  and  not  one  sickly. 
And  so,  and  so, 
Blow  upon  blow, 

Like  thunder  they  fall  on  the  anvil,  and  lo! 
He  misses  the  iron  by  never  a  blow. 

Bohemia  is  our  native  land, 

And  blessed  of  God,  with  coal  our  land; 

The  coal  it  gives  us  light  and  heat, 

And  the  iron  makes  us  strong. 
Strong  hands  can  do  great  deeds,  and  meet 

For  a  heart  that  knows  no  wrong. 
And  so,  and  so, 
Blow  upon  blow, 

Like  thunder  they  fall  on  the  anvil,  and  lo! 
He  misses  the  iron  by  never  a  blow. 

Bohemians  have  been  blacksmiths  bold, 
Strong  of  arm,  they  have  kept  their  hold, 
Made  plows,  and  harrows,  thrashing  frail, 

Axe  and  hammer,  bar  and  nail. 
With  shame  their  cheeks  were  never  pale — 

They  knew  not  such  a  word  as  fail. 
And  so,  and  so, 
Blow  upon  blow, 

Like  thunder  they  fall  on  the  anvil,  and  lo! 
They  miss  the  iron  by  never  a  blow. 

*The  Bohemians  call  themselves  Checks. 
I 

i 


THE  STRANGE  GUEST.  151 


THE  STEANGE  GUEST. 

Mirth  and  dancing,  music  playing, 
Song  and  jest  alone  are  heard; 

And  the  bride  with  joy  is  laughing 
At  the  bridegroom's  generous  cheer. 

"  Listen,  servants!  men  and  women!  " 
Cries  the  bridegroom,  wild  with  joy. 

"  Open  pantry,  open  cellars — 
Eat  and  drink  without  alloy." 

Mirth  and  dancing,  by  a  table 

Sits  an  unknown  guest  and  cries: 
"  Hoj!  for  one  dance  with  that  maiden, 
Life  I'd  give,  like  him  who  dies." 

Once  they  danced  around  the  chamber, 
Lo,  the  smile  died  on  her  face. 

Twice  they  danced  and  pale  her  features, 
Pale  like  snow  in  that  wild  pace. 

"  Ho!  Art  pale  indeed,  my  loved  one! 

Does  thy  memory  start  with  pain? 
Is  it  hard  to  see  thy  Zdenko, 
On  thy  wedding  day  again?" 

On  the  third  round  they  have  entered — 

In  her  ear  he  whispers  low ; 
Senseless  from  his  clasp  she  swooneth, 

In  the  bridegroom's  arms  falls  slow. 


152  BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 

Cries  and  amazement — music  stops — 
They  all  rush  to  help  the  bride. 

Where  is  the  man?    The  unknown  guest! 
Away!    Dark  is  the  night  to  hide! 

The  music  plays — the  dance  has  ceased, 
All  joy  has  now  passed  for  aye. 

To  endless  rest  they  bore  the  bride, 
In  the  dance  she  passed  away. 


CHRISTMAS  EVE.  153 


CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

PAET   FIEST. 

Darkness  like  the  grave;  on  the  window  frost, 
But  in  the  room  beside  the  stove  is  warm. 

By  the  fire's  blaze  granny  sits  and  nods, 

While  the  maidens  spin  the  soft  flax  by  storm. 

Spin  around,  whirl  around,  spinning-wheel  mine, 
Advent  is  nearing,  and  rest  shall  be  thine, 
For  soon,  for  oh  soon  will  be  Christmas  time. 

Oh,  diligent  maidens  I  love  to  see 

Spinning  their  flax  in  the  long  winter  night, 
For  pay  they'll  receive  when  spinning  is  done; 

And  a  linen  pile  is  a  gladsome  sight. 

And  youths  will  come  for  a  diligent  girl, 

They  will  say,  "  Oh,  maiden,  beloved,  be  mine! 

I  will  take  thee  home  as  my  cherished  wife, 
And  I  will  be  wholly,  wholly  thine. 

I'll  be  thy  husband,  and  thou'lt  be  my  wife,  . 

Give  me  thy  hand,  that  I  know  it  is  so!" 
Then  the  maiden  will  cut  her  linen  fine, 

And  gladly  her  wedding  shirts  she  will  sew. 

Spin  around,  whirl  around,  spinning  wheel  mine, 
Advent  is  nearing  and  rest  will  be  thine; 
For  soon,  for  oh  soon  will  be  Christmas  time. 

PART  SECOND. 

Ho!  thou  Christmas  evening, 

Filled  with  mystic  awe. 
Good  perhaps  thou  bringest, 

Better  then  we  saw. 


134  BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 

For  the  farmer  fodder, 
That  his  cows  grow  sleek. 

For  the  fowls  some  barley, 
Peas  then  let  them  seek. 

For  the  fruit  trees  compost, 
Made  of  pounded  bones. 

For  the  one  who  fast«th, 
Lights  from  other  zones. 

I,  an  honest  maiden, 
With  my  heart  still  free, 

Fain  would  see  the  lover 
That  will  come  for  me. 


Far  behind  the  forest, 
Near  the  little  bridge, 

Stands  a  willow  ancient, 
Snow  on  tree  and  ridge. 

Willow  stooping  downward, 
Leaning  on  the  ice, 

Drooping  where  the  blue  sea 
Now  has  turned  to  ice. 


Here  they  say  that  maidens, 
In  the  moonlight  clear, 

May  behold  their  lover, 
If  they  have  no  fear. 

I,  who  fear  no  evil, 

Will  break  through  the  ice. 
With  an  axe  Pll  cut  it, 

Gaze  down  in  the  ice. 

Deep,  deep  down  they  tell  me, 

In  the  frozen  sea, 
I  shall  see  my  future, 

If  I  do  not  flee. 


CHRISTMAS  EVE.  155 

PART  THIRD. 


Mary  and  Hannah,  two  beautiful  girls, 

That  hloom  like  the  roses  in  spring. 
And  which  the  fairest,  oh  nobody  knows, 

They  are  flowers  that  bloom  in  spring. 

Should  she  speak  to  a  youth,  gentle  and  soft, 

In  fire  he'd  spring  for  her  sake. 
Should  the  other  smile,  forgotten  the  first, 

Forgotten  the  first  for  her  sake. 

Midnight  is  near,  and  the  night  it  is'dark; 

But  the  wee  stars  are  shining  bright. 
They  shine  round  the  moon,  like  sheep  round   the 
crook ' 

Of  shepherd  that  watches  by  night. 

Midnight  is  near,  'tis  the  mystical  night, 
The  night  when  our  Saviour  was  born. 

On  the  new-fallen  snow  footsteps  are  seen, 
They  lead  to  the  willow  forlorn. 

Down  on  her  knees  the  maiden  is  gazing — 

The  other  one  stands  by  her  side. 
"  Hannah,  dear  Hannah,  oh  gold  heart,  now  say, 
What  is  it  the  future  can  hide?" 

"  I  see  a  cottage — but  all  in  a  mist — 
Like  the  one  Venik  *  is  building. 
The  mist  is  clearing — oh,  now  I  see  clear, 
A  door,  and  some  one  near  standing. 

"  His  coat  is  dark  green — yes,  green  is  his  coat, 

His  hat  on  one  side — now  I  see; 
The  flowers  I  gave  him,  stuck  on  one  side, 
My  God!  'tis  my  Venik  I  see." 

*  Venik  (Vaclav)  Wenzel. 


156  BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 

She  jumped  to  her  feet,  her  heart  beating  wild, 

The  other  one  knelt  on  the  ice. 
"  God  give,  Mary  dear,  you  also  behold, 
Your  happiness  down  in  the  ice." 

"  Oh,  I  see,  I  see,  but  all  is  gloomy, 

Shrouded  in  some  darkness  dreary, 
Faint  red  lights,  from  out  the  darkness, 
Light  the  church's  altar  dreary. 

"  Something  dark  amidst  white  dresses  fluttering — 

Now  the  mist  is  growing  clear,  I  see — 
*Bridesmaids,  but,  oh  God,  they  follow  something; 
Cross  and  coffin  all  1  see! " 

PART  FOURTH. 

Summer  winds  are  softly  blowing, 

On  the  scented  new-mown  hay. 
Fields  and  garden  full  of  flowers, 

Promising  a  harvest  day. 
From  the  church  one  heard  the  singing, 
And  the  wedding  music  ringing, 

As  they  led  the  happy  pair. 

Stately  bridegroom,  tall  and  stalwart, 

Walking  midst  the  wedding  guests. 
Green  the  coat  upon  his  shoulders, 

And  his  hat  on  one  side  rests. 
As  she  saw  him  in  the  midnight, 
Now  she  sees  him  in  the  daylight, 

As  he  leads  her  to  his  home. 

Summer's  past.     Cold  winds  are  blowing 

O'er  the  dreary  harvest  fields. 
Bells  are  tolling  as  they  carry 

One  who  now  no  longer  feels. 


*  In  Bohemia  when  a  young  girl  or  lad  dies,  they  are  followed 
to  their  grave  by  bridesmaids  or  grooms;  the  richer  the  dead 
the  larger  the  number;  the  girls  wear  wreaths  of  myrtle  and  are 
dressed  in  white. 


CHRISTMAS  EVE.  15? 


Bridesmaids  with  wax  candles  follow, 
Weeping — music  sad  and  hollow, 
Sung  in  accents  cold  and  clear, 
"  Misserere,  sleep  in  peace  I" 

"  Who  with  myrtle  wreath  is  sleeping, 
In  the  coffin's  narrow  °™™t>" 


Dead,  oh  dead,  and  past  all  weeping — 

Fairest  lily  of  her  race, 
Blooming  like  a  cherished  flower, 
Till  cut  in  an  evil  hour, 

Poor,  poor,  beautiful  Mary! 

PART  FIFTH. 

Terrible  cold!  on  the  window  is  frost, 

But  in  the  room  beside  the  stove,  is  warm. 

By  the  fire's  blaze  granny  sits  and  nods, 
And  again  the  maidens  spin  through  the  storm. 

Spin  around,  whirl  around,  spinning  wheel  mine, 

Advent  is  nearing,  and  rest  will  be  thine. 
For  soon,  for  oh  soon  will  be  Christmas  time. 

Ah,  thou  Christmas  evening, 

Filled  with  mystic  awe, 
When  I  think  upon  thee, 

My  heart  beats  with  awe. 

We  were  sitting  spinning, 

As  we  sit  to-day, 
But  a  year  has  rolled  by — 

Two  have  gone  away. 

One  is  sitting  sewing, 

Baby  shirts  I  ween. 
Three  months  Mary  sleepest, 

In  the  graveyard  green. 

We  were  sitting  spinning, 

As  we  sit  to-day. 
Ere  the  year  be  finished, 

Will  we  meet,  I  say? 


158  BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 

Spin  around,  whirl  around,  spinning  wheel  mine, 
Man's  life  is  a  dream,  and  a  trying  time, 
And  life  is  a  puzzle  hard  to  divine. 

Oh,  better  to  live  hoping, 

And  our  future  not  to  see, 
Than  to  know  what  will  befall, 

When  we  cannot,  cannot  flee. 


THE  EETURN. 

Oh,   the  peaceful,  quiet   village,   nestling    midst    the 

Bohemian  hills, 
With  its  humble  straw-thatched  hamlets  clustering 

round  the  little  church. 
On  one  side  the  great  lake  stretches,  fed  by  many  bright 

mountain  rills, 

On  the  other  side  are  forests,  pine  and  cedar,  silvery 
birch. 

I  can  see  it  all  before  me,  as  I  left  it  in  my  boyhood; 
Left  my  parents,  left  my  village,  to   go  soldiering  in 

the  world. 
Fifty  years  have  come  and  faded — still  the   cross  stands 

where  it  stood, 

Only  I  am  changed  and  weary,  strange  that  this  was 
once  my  world. 

And  now  I  come  back  with  honors,  with  my  medals, 

with  all  my  fame, 

Just  to  look  upon  the  village   where  my   happy  boy- 
hood strayed, 
Just  to  seek  out  in  the  little  churchyard  the  few  graves 

that  bear  my  name, 

And   to  say  a  humble  prayer  where  my  parents  low 
are  laid. 

Yes,  I  left  them  in  my  boyhood,  careless  of  their  bitter 

anguish — 

And  the  warnings  of  my  mother  entered  not  my  heed- 
less ears, 
Till  years  after,  I  lay  wounded  far  from  home  in  bitter 

anguish, 

Then  I  felt  my  parent's  sorrow,  then  I  realized  their 
fears. 


160  BOHEMIAN  LEGttNbS. 

But  with  strength  came  happier  feelings,  and  soon  my 

soldier's  heart  beat  high, 
When  I  heard  I  was  promoted,  and  a  medal  graced 

my  breast. 
Still  the  war  raged  on  unending,  many  a  comrade  saw  I 

die, 

While  I  rose  and  rose  in  station,  with  more  medals 
on  my  breast. 

And  their  letters   came   so   seldom,    telling  of    their 

homely  pastimes; 
Of  the  endless  toil  and  trouble   that  weigh  down  the 

peasant  heart, 
That  it  struck  me  with  strange  new  wonder,  like  some 

old  forgotten  chime 

Wafted  to  us  in  our  labor    from  the  far-off  ancient 
mart. 

And  the  years  passed  on  so  quickly  'neath  the  tender 

southern  sunlight, 
I  forgot  to  count  how  many  since  I  saw  my  native 

land; 

And  the  past  seemed  strange  and  dreary — dim  and  un- 
real to  my  sight, 

When  I  paused  to  watch  the  peasants  cutting  vines 
with  skillful  hand. 

True,  they  wrote  to  me  in  longing,  begging  I  would 

come  and  see  them, 
Saying  they  were  old  and  weary,  and  would  see  their 

soldier  boy, 
But  there  always  came  a  reason  why  I  could  not  go  and 

see  them, 

Could  not  clasp  them  to  my  bosom  in  the  rapture  of 
my  joy. 

So  the  years  pass'd,  I  rose  higher — until  a  general's 

rank  was  mine, 

Then  I  asked  to  be  permitted  to  send  in  my  own  dis- 
charge, 
Pleading  that  my  health  was  too  feeble   to  serve  longer 

in  the  line, 

Pleading  I  had  wounds  in  plenty,  and  now  longed  to 
be  discharged. 


THE  RETURN.  161 

While  I  waited  for  the  answer,  came  a  letter  with  sad 

tidings, 
Telling  me  my  poor  old  father  had  been  stricken  down 

by  death. 

Yes,  a  tree  had  fallen  on  him,  and  the  unexpected  tid- 
ings, 

Coming  sudden  on  my  mother,  had  deprived  her  of  her 
life. 

Long,  they  told  me,  she  lay  dying,  half  unconscious, 

praying  slowly, 
For   her  son   who  was  a  soldier,  for  her  boy  who  was 

away, 
Saying,  "  Could  I  see  him   only,  oh,  my  Father,  just 

and  holy; 

Could  he  close  my  eyes  in  slumber,  happy  were  my 
dying  day." 

Oh,  my  God,  she  never  saw  me,  never  heard  my  piteous 

weeping; 
Never  saw  me  with  my  medals   pass  the  threshold  of 

the  door; 
Now  her  soldier  boy  stands  sighing  by  the  grave  where 

she  is  sleeping, 

Thinking  of  the  many  sorrows  that  so  patiently  she 
bore. 

Thinking  of  my  poor  old  father  I  had  left  half  broken- 
hearted, 

Of  the  little  baby  sister,  now  an  angel  up  on  high, 
And  the  changes  in  my  brothers  and  my   sisters  since 

we  parted, 

And  I  almost  feel  that  gladly  I  would  lay  me  down 
and  die. 

Farewell,  then,  my  native  village,  and  the  hamlet  where 

I  was  born, 
Fifty  years  ago  I  left  you  in  the  hope  of  winning 

fame, 
And  I  leave  you  now,  forever,  famous,  crippled,  and 

most  forlorn, 

Having  spent  my  life's  best  hours  just  to  win  a  glori- 
ous name. 


BOHEMIAN  LE&mm 


LEGEND   OF  THE  LADY  IN  WHITE.* 

The  whirlwind  is  howling — the  night  it  is  dark — 

The  mountains  like  giants  frown  down  on  the  scene. 

The  hall  from  whose  windows  a  flickering  light  shines., 

Is  the  only  shelter  for  miles  to  be  seen. 

The  whirlwind  is  raging  through  turrets  and  eaves, 

It  shrieks  by  the  windows,  it  howls  at  the  door. 

Near  by  in  the  forest  the  trees  creak  and  moan, 

As  the  wind  rushes  through,  with  terrible  roar. 

"  God  be  with  the  stranger  that  wanders  to-night, 

Amidst  our  wild  mountains,"  the  servant  said  low, 

And  lit  the  red  light  at  the  Crucifix's  feet. 

"  God  bless  us,  and  keep  us,  and  save  us  from  woe." 

There's  a  knock  at  the  door — the  servant  turns  pale, 

And  crosses  himself,  ere  he  opens  the  gate. 

Two  strangers  are  standing,  he  sees  their  long  robes, 

And  blesses  himself,  and  the  strangers  that  wait. 

"  In  the  name  of  the  Lord,  whose  servants  we  are, 

We  beseech  thee,  shelter  us  but  for  to-night. 

Our  way  we  have  lost,  and  the  tempest  is  great, 

Let  us  stay  here,  I  pray  thee,  till  the  dawn's  light." 

The  servant  bows.  "  Reverend  fathers,"  he  said, 

*  This  celebrated  ghost  is  one  of  the  most  historical  in  Europe. 
She  was  born  1430,  baptized  Bertha  (Perchta),  married  Hans  von 
Licktenstein  (of  the  steirischen  Linie  von  Muran).  She  died  in  April, 
1476,  and  was  buried  in  Vienna  in  the  vault  to  "den  Shotten." 
During  the  last  part  of  her  life  she  lived  with  her  brother, 
Heinrich  von  Neuhausen.  There  are  still  many  of  her  letters 
that  can  be  seen  and  read,  also  letters  from  others  who  declare 
that  they  saw  her.  She  was  seen  in  Berlin  by  the  Burggrafen 
von  Zollern,  also  in  Lyons,  Paris,  London,  Stockholm  and  Copen- 
hagen, where  members  of  the  Rosenbergs  (now  princes  of 
Schwartzenberg)  had  wandered.  Johann  of  the  house  of  Liech- 
tenstein, Domherr  (canon  or  prebendary),  was  the  last  who  saw 
her.  He  is  said  to  have  made  peace,  with  saying  mass  and  join- 
ing their  hands.  The  same  day  next  year  he  died. — Chronik  of 
Bohmen,  Prague,  1853. 


THE  LADY  JN  WHITE.  163 

"  Our  master  ne'er  sent  a  poor  monk  from  his  door, 

And  though  he  is  absent,  I  bid  you  come  in, 

Come  in,  worthy  fathers,  be  fed  from  his  store." 

"  God  bless  now  thy  master,  his  house  and  his  field! 

The  Lord  will  reward  him  for  what  he  has  done; 

Not  a  mouthful  of  food  have  we  had  to-day, 

We  were  lost  in  the  mountains  and  woods,  my  son." 

The  servant  led  on,  and  the  monks  came  behind, 

"  Eeverend  fathers/'  he  said,  "  the  kitchen  is  warm; 

Come  sit  by  the  fire,  and  eat  to  your  fill — 

'Tis  better  than  straying  without  in  the  storm. 

Were  our  master  at  home,  you  would  sup  in  the  hall, 

But  gladly  we'll  give  you  the  best  that  we  can." 

"  My  son,"  said  the  monk,  "  we  are  easy  to  please, 

Who  follow  the  footsteps  of  '  The  Son  of  Man.' " 

They  sit  in  the  kitchen,  one  young  and  one  old, 

And  eat  of  the  food  that  the  servants  have  brought. 

The  wind  down  the  chimney  howls  dreary  and  wild, 

Like  the  souls  of  the  lost  who  evil  have  wrought. 

"  'Tis  a  terrible  night,"  said  the  wan  old  monk, 

"  It  reminds  me  indeed  of  a  night  long  past, 

Of  a  terrible  night  when  our  Domherr  died — 

Ah,  years  ago  in  the  beginning  of  fast. 

The  whirlwind  was  howling — the  night  it  was  dark. 

I  sat  by  his  bed,  and  I  counted  my  beads. 

He  knew  he  must  die,  for  a  ghost  had  appeared, 

A  ghost  of  his  family  in  deep  widow's  weeds." 

"  A  ghost,  reverend  father!  and  how  could  that  be?" 

"  I  know  not,  my  children,' the  legend  is  old, 

And  awful  indeed,  as  the  whirlwind  to-night, 

I  can  but  relate  you  the  tale  I  was  told. 

The  daughter  of  a  noble  line, 

In  Neuhausen  she  saw  the  light, 
Where  all  her  childish  years  were  spent, 

In  innocent  and  pure  delight. 
Beloved  of  all,  with  maiden  grace, 

She  grew  up  like  a  flower  fair, 
And  many  were  the  youths  who  came, 

And  praised  her  face,  and  praised  her  hair. 
On  one  alone  her  father  smiled, 

A  goodly  youth,  John  Lichtenstein. 
And  when  she  reached  her  nineteenth  year, 

He  told  the  youth,  the  girl  is  thine, 


164  BOHEMIAN  Z&9S8W. 

Ah,  merry  rang  the  wedding  bells — 

And  many  were  the  guests  that  came, 
And  gathered  round  the  festive  board 

Were  not  a  few  of  noble  name. 
The  first  few  years  they  lived  in  peace, 

As  well  befits  a  married  pair, 
Then  John  of  Lichtenstein  grew  cold, 

And  left  his  wife  to  her  despair. 
The  devil  jealousy  -took  room 

Within  his  heart,  and  he  would  fain 
Have  walled  his  wife  within  her  room, 

So  burning  was  his  jealous  pain. 
They  lived  indeed  a  dreadful  life, 

Which  every  day  grew  worse  and  worse. 
He  kept  her  like  the  meanest  born, 

Without  a  home,  without  a  purse. 
For  years  she  bore  her  wretched  lot. 

And  wifelike  tried  to  smile  through  tears, 
Till  life  became  to  her  a  hell. 

And  death  for  her  lost  all  its  fears. 
At  length  endurance  had  an  end, 

Ill-treatment  drove  her  from  her  home; 
She  left  her  lord,  and  fled  at  night, 

To  her  old  childhood's  home  alone. 
Her  brother  took  her,  eased  her  pain, 

And  would  have  played  the  kinsman's  part, 
Made  peace — or  dueled  with  her  lord, 

And  stabbed  him  through  his  wicked  heart, 
But  Bertha  said,  "  Let  him  alone- 
God  may  forgive  him,  but  not  I. 
Since  I  am  safe  with  you  at  home, 

Oh,  wherefore,  brother,  should  he  die?" 
Long  years  she  lived  with  him  in  peace, 

There  where  her  childish  feet  had  strayed. 
Was  mother  to  his  orphaned  brood, 

When  he  in  his  low  grave  was  laid. 
Her  time  she  passed  in  works  of  love, 

The  naked  clothed,  the  poor  one  fed, 
Was  loved  and  honored  through  the  laud, 

And  blessings  fell  upon  her  head, 
So  years  passed  on,  her  husband  died; 

But  unforgiving  still,  she  said, 
e(  God  may  forgive  him,  but  not  I. 

'Tie  well  indeed  that  he  is  dead." 


LAD  T  IN  WB1T&  \  65 

At  length  she  also  fell  asleep, 

Was  buried  with  all  solemn  state; 
But  lo!  her  spirit, found  no  rest, 

And  very  dread'ful  was  her  fate. 
In  the  cold  moonlight  she  was*  seen, 

Dressed  in  her  bridal  dress  and  veil, 
Pacing  the  halls  she  knew  in  life, 

With  features  very  calm  and  pale. 
She  carne  to  one,  she  came  to  all, 

That  had  her  blood  within  their  veins; 
She  came  at  morn,  she  came  at  noon — 

They  met  her  in  familar  lanes; 
She  gazed  upon  them  with  sad  eyes, 

Then  slowly  faded  from  their  sight; 
Before  their  death  she  came  in  black, 

But  otherwise  was  dressed  in  white. 
In  every  castle  of  her  race, 

Her  sad  white  face  was  seen  at  times; 
She  followed  them  from  place  to  place, 

And  she  was  seen  in  many  climes; 
She'stood  beside  the  new-born  babe, 

The  dying  gazed  upon  her  face; 
In  vain  were  masses  for  her  soul, 

Said  by  the  righteous  of  her  race. 
In  Neuhausen  she  made  her  home, 

If  ghosts,  indeed,  a  home  can  make, 
And  it  was  there  her  soul  found  rest, 

Found  rest  at  length  for  Jesus'  sake. 
Our  Domherr  *  was  a  righteous  man, 

A  godly  priest  who  loved  the  truth; 
But  he  was  of  her  haunted  race, 

And  had  to  die  for  her,  forsooth. 
Once  to  Neuhausen  he  was  called, 

And  in  a  stately  room  was  led, 
Where  many  family  paintings  hung, 

There  they  had  made  for  him  a  bed. 
'Twas  evening  and  the  candle's  light 

Half  hid  the  portraits  hanging  low. 
And  one  was  of  a  wedded  pair, 

It  seemed  to  him  he  ought  to  know; 

*Canon, 


1  (5  6  BOHEMIAN  L  KQKNL8. 

The  bridegroom  had  a  scowling  look, 

The  bride  was  very  fair  and  pale; 
Dressed  in  her  bridal  robes,  she  stood 

With  myrtle  wreath  and  long  white  veil. 
Long  time  our  Domherr  stood  and  prayed 

Her  tortured  spirit  might  find  rest; 
Then  laid  him  down  to  sleep  in  peace, 

With  holy  feelings  in  his  breast. 
At  midnight,  at  the  stroke  of  twelve, 

He  woke  up  with  a  sudden  fear; 
The  moonlight  flooded  all  his  room, 

And  lo!  poor  Bertha's  ghost  was  near. 
He  felt  the  blood  rush  to  his  heart, 

While  horror  numbed  his  very  brain; 
He  could  not  move,  he  scarce  could  breathe, 

And  so  he  laid  there  in  his  pain. 
She  stepped  from  out  the  portrait's  frame, 

Her  white  dress  glimmered  in  the  light; 
He  saw  her  dark  eyes  on  him  rest, 

And  almost  fainted  at  the  sight; 
She  came  and  stood  beside  his  bed — 

He  felt  the  coldness  of  the  grave 
Waft  on  him  from  her  garments  white, 

Then  shrieked  in  horror,  "  Oh,  Christ,  save!"^ 
And  with  the  name  of  Christ  all  fear 

Was^banished  from  our  Domherr's  soul. 
"  All  righteous  spirits  praise  the  Lord/' 

He  said.     "  How  can  I  ease  thy  dole? 
Speak  now,  poor  spirit,  I  entreat, 

Or  sleep  in  peace  within  thy  grave! 
What  unforgiven  sins  are  thine, 

That  maketh  thee  the  devil's  slave?" 
"  Alas!  "  she  said,  "  Oh,  kinsman,  hear! 

I  of  my  husband  ever  said, 
God  may  forgive  him,  but  not  I; 

'Tis  well,  indeed,  that  he  is  dead. 
I  cannot  enter  Heaven's  rest 

Till  I  have  made  my  peace  on  earth. 
Now  thou  wert  chosen  for  this  act, 

From  the  first  hour  of  thy  birth. 
My  husband,  for  the  ill  he  wrought, 

Ju  purgatorial  pains  must  burn— 


THE  LADY  IN  WHITE. 

He  also  would  be  reconciled 

To  ease  his  torments  long  and  stern. 
Long  years  we  waited  for  this  hour — 

If  thou  art  willing,  lo,  we  meet, 
All  three  to-morrow,  to  make  peace, 

Before  God's  holy  mercy  seat." 
The  Domherr  said,  "  Oh,  wretched  pair,,   - 

Most  gladly  I  will  join  your  hands; 
Come  but  to-morrow,  as  you  say, 

And  we  will  break  the  devil's  bands." 
The  spirit  faded  from  his  sight — 

New  horror  tilled  his  trembling  fame. 
What  was  this  vision  he  had  seen? 

And  would  his  kindred  come  again? 
All  day  he  fasted,  thought  and  prayed, 

And  when  the  evening  shadows  came, 
Built  a  high  altar  in  his  room, 

And  knelt  in  prayer  before  the  same. 
Wax  candles  burnt  before  the  shrine, 

And  incense  filled  the  heavy  air, 
When  on  the  stroke  of  twelve  o'clock, 

Before  him  stood  the  troubled  pair. 
"  What  will  you?  "  asked  the  godly  priest. 
"  We  seek  forgiveness,"  both  they  said; 
And  then  our  Domherr  took  their  hands, 

And  joined  them  as  when  they  were  wed. 
The  room  was  filled  with  heavenly  light — 

An  unseen  chorus  sang  God's  praise; 
The  Domherr  and  the  wretched  ones 

Acknowledged  now  God's  wondrous  ways; 
By  unknown  hands  were  censers  swung, 

The  room  was  filled  with  perfume  sweet, 
All  three  fell  down  upon  their  knees 

In  prayer  before  the  mercy  seat. 
Angelic  voices  sang  God's  praise, 

So  loud  the  castle  rang  with  song. 
The  Domherr  knelt  before  the  shrine — 

He  never  knew  himself  how  long — 
At  length  a  voice  broke  on  his  ear, 

The  voice  of  one  he  knew  so  well. 
<e  Oh,  blessed  kinsman,  in  a  year, 

Thou  too  will  come  with  us  to  dwell. 


168  BOUEMIAN 

Who  can  repay  what  thon  hast  done, 

But  He  who  chose  you  for  His  own. 
This  day  a  year  hence  I  will  come, 

To  lead  thee  to  the  heavenly  throne." 
And  it  was  so — in  one  short  year. 

Our  Domherr  slept  amidst  the  dead; 
But  ere  he  died,  he  told  us  all 

That  Bertha  stood  beside  his  bed; 
She  held  a  palm  branch  in  her  hand, 

Her  face  was  lit  with  heavenly  light. 
"  I've  come  for  thee,"  she  softly  said, 
"  To  lead  thee  to  the  Lord's  delight." 
Our  Domherr  smiled,  and  stretched  his  hand,u 
"  Oh,  lead  me  to  my  Lord,"  he  said. 
A  rapturous  light  shown  on  his  face, 

And  when  it  faded  he  was  dead. 

He  ended.     The  whirlwind  raged  on  in  the  night, 

It  howled  by  -the  windows,  it  shrieked  at  the  door, 

The  terrified  servants  with  horror  it  filled, 

The  thought  of  the  demon  as  never  before; 

The  spiritual  world  with  its  weal  and  its  woe, 

Seemed  near  them;  they  trembled  to  think  they  rnigni 

see 

The  form  of  some  being  no  more  of  this  world, 
And  seeing  be  powerless  even  to  flee. 
"  Oh,  father/'  they  said,  "  'tis  a  terrible  tale. 
And  had  you  not  told  us,  who  would  have  believed? 
Though  all  of  us  know  the  dead  can  arise, 
They  generally  only  the  wicked  deceive." 
"  My  children,"  the  monk  said,  "  the  living  and  dead 
Are  all  in  the  hands  of  the  Lord  we  adore. 
Oh,  pray  that  your  sins  be  forgiven  on  earth, 
Be  nailed  to  the  cross  that  our  dear  Saviour  bore." 
The  servant  now  led  them  to  where  they  might  rest 
And  sleep,  if  they  chose,  till  the  coming  of  day, 
And  when  the  sun  rose,  and  the  storm  had  been  stilled, 
With  blessings  and  thanks  the  two  monks  went  their 

way. 


SIMON  ABELE8. 


SIMON  ABELES.* 

Here  in  this  grave  a  little  martyr  lies — 
A  little  boy  who  counted  but  ten  years, 

Killed  by  his  father  in  a  moment  dread. 

This  Jewish  child  amidst  the  Christian  dead, 
Was  carried  by  all  Prague  with  groans  and  sighs, 
In  the  Tyn  Minster  amidst  many  tears. 

Killed  by  his  father!  'Tis  an  awful  thought — 
This  Jewish  boy  had  dared  to  be  baptized, 
Had  dared  to  tell  his  father  of  his  hope, 
And  bid  defiance  to  the  whip  and  rope 
He  knew  would  wait  him  for  the  faith  he  sought, 
The  faith  that  by  his  fathers  was  despised. 

Oft  when  they  drove  him  forth  to  earn  his  bread, 
In  the  Tyn  Minster  he  had  stood  and  heard 
The  gracious  message  of  our  blessed  Lord, 
And  he  in  silence  stood  there  and  adored. 
At  length  one  day  a  Jesuit  priest  had  said, 
"  What  brings  thee  here  to  listen  to  the  Word?" 

And  then  the  Jewish  boy  his  heart  outpoured, 
Told  of  the  love  he  felt  for  Him  who  died, 

And  how  he  yearned  to  come  within  that  fold 
Of  perfect  peace  of  which  the  priest  had  told. 
The  monk  then  told  him,  from  his  mind  well  stored, 
Things  of  the  faith,  for  which  the  poor  boy  sighed. 

*  Simon  Abeles,  a  Jewish  boy,  was  killed  by  his  own  father, 
because  he  turned  Christian,  the  21st  of  February,  1694.  He  was 
buried  with  great  pomp  as  a  martyr,  in  a  glass  coffin,  on  the  right 
side  of  the  altar  in  the  Tyn  Minster  in  Prague.— Chronik  von 
jJohinen,  1854. 


170  BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 

And  so  they  met  and  conversed  many  days, 
Until  the  priest  said  one  morn,  "  Come,  my  son, 
I  will  baptize  thee,  since  it  is  thy  will, 
But  thou  must  come  and  see  me  often  still." 
"  My  father,"  said  the  child,  "  you  know  God's  ways, 
-    There  must  be  struggle,  ere  the  crown  be  won." 

"  Come  live  with  us,  my  child,"  the  monk  replied, 
"  If  aught  you  dread  before  your  father's  wrath." 
"  My  heart  misgives  me,"  said  the  boy.  "  I  fear, 
I  know  not  what — ah,  well,  the  Lord  is  near." 
And  so  they  parted,  and  the  poor  boy  sighed, 
While  the  monk  watched  him  going  down  the  path. 

Three  days  went  by — the  boy  was  seen  no  more — 

Then  the  priests  sought  him,  and  they  found  him 

dead ; 

Killed  by  his  father  in  a  moment  wild, 
There  on  his  bed  they  found  the  bleeding  child, 

With  marks  of  many  sufferings  that  he  bore, 

Before  his  childish  spirit  to  Christ  fled. 

They  hung  his  father.     But  the  martyred  boy 
With  solemn  pomp  they  bore  to  his  hist  rest. 
By  the  high  altar  amidst  chanting  sad, 
And  grief  of  the  vast  multitude,  the  lad 
Was  buried,  while  they  prayed  that  heaven's  joy 
Might  be  his  own,  who  died  a  martyr  blessed. 


QMS  SfOJtS  MA&B& 


LEGEND  OF  THE  STONE  MAIDEN.* 

"  Do  you  hear  the  church-bells  ringing, 

Ringing  from  the  distant  mart? 
With  their  metal  tongues  they're  singing, 
"  Give  the  Lord  alone  thy  heart!" 
Petronella,  take  thy  mass  book, 

It  is  time  that  we  should  start." 

"  Oh,  no,  granny,  I  am  going 

Where  the  strawberries  are  ripe. 
Midst  the  green  leaves  they  are  glowing 

Like  a  crimson  velvet  stripe; 
In  the  forest  there  are  flowers, 
Violets,  and  gipsies  pipe." 

"  Oh,  my  child,  are  you  lightheaded? 

Why  to-day  is  St.  John  morn, 
Think  of  him  who  was  beheaded 

In  his  prison  cell  forlorn. 
Be  not  like  that  wanton  maiden — 

Better  she  was  never  born ! " 

"  Oh,  dear  granny,  she  was  skillful, 

And  could  dance  with  wondrous  grace; 

But  St.  John  was  very  willful, 
And  he  did  not  know  his  place. 

One  should  leave  kings  all  their  pleasures, 
And  not  blame  them  to  their  face." 

*  Tbis  legend  is  told  in  Tetscben,-  in  the  valley  of  tbe  Kante, 
of  a  mountain  tbat  looks  like  a  girl  with  a  basket. — Ohronik  von 
BiJhmen,  Prague,  1853. 


BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 

"  Oh,  thou  God-forsaken  creature! 

Wilt  thou  judge  the  saints  in  light? 
Art  thou  then  a  better  teacher 

Than  the  church  that  preaches  right? 
Wilt  thou  blame  that  blessed  martyr, 

Who  is  now  an  angel  bright?" 

"  I  will  wander  in  the  sunlight, 

Gather  berries  all  the  day, 
And  to-night  I'll  dance  till  miduight? 

Spite  of  everything  you  say." 
And  the  wicked  girl  went  laughing, 
Laughing  gladly  on  her  way. 

Then  her  grand  da  me  sadly  weeping, 
Took  her  way  unto  the  church, 

Saying  "  Better  thou  went  sleeping 
In  the  graveyard  'neath  the  birch, 

Than  to  scorn  the  holy  teachings, 
And  to  leave  thy  faith  in  lurch." 

In  the  wood  the  wicked  maiden 
Gathered  berries  ripe  and  red, 

Then  with  basket  heavy  laden, 
Hid  her  where  the  two  ways  led; 

When  she  saw  her  granddame  coming, 
Hear  the  wicked  words  she  said. 


"  Look,  old  crow,  what  comes  of  praying  — 

Nothing  but  an  empty  sack. 
I  while  in  the  sunlight  straying 

Found  of  strawberries  no  lack; 
Seems  to  me  that  in  rewarding 

Your  old  saint  is  over  slack." 


"  Wretched  girl!  That  God  would  turn  thee 

To  a  stone  upon  the  way! 
Dost  thou  revile  St.  John  and  me  — 

And  think  to  escape  all  pay? 
An  awful  fate  will  be  thine  own  — 

That  is  all  I  have  to  say." 


THE  STONK  MAIDEN. 

Homeward  went  the  grand  dame  sadly, 
Thinking  of  that  naughty  maid, 

Then  she  eat  her  dinner  gladly, 

Wondering  where  the  maiden  stayed; 

Sat  her  down  and  began  nodding, 
Murmuring,  "  She  is  now  afraid/' 

Soon  the  neighbors  came  in  horror. 
"  Petronella's  turned  to  stone! 
Come  and  see  her  to  thy  sorrow, 

Standing  on  the  hill  alone; 
Grown  like  a  mighty  mountain, 

With  her  basket  turned  to  stone." 

Pale  with  horror  went  the  granddame, 
Gazed  upon  the  far-off  hill, 

Then  calling  loud  the  Virgin's  name, 
She  fell  in  a  death-cramp  chill. 

The  neighbors  bore  her  to  her  grave, 
And  the  mound  they  show  you  still. 

By  Tetschen  is  the  mountain  sere, 
And  the  peasants  love  to  tell 

To  naughty  maids  who  will  not  fear, 
The  trouble  that  once  befell 

A  girl  who  laughed  at  good  St.  John, 
And  her  grandmother  as  well. 


BOHEMIAN  LEQMDS. 


A  JEWISH  LEGEND  OF  PRAGUE.* 

They  were  dying,  dying  daily, 

The  small  children  of  the  Jews; 
And  each  mother's  heart  was  heavy, 

As  she  heard  the  bitter  news. 
Every  mother  clasped  her  infant 

With  a  love  unfelt  before, 
While  she  sought  Jehovah's  blessing 

For  the  little  child  she  bore. 
They  were  dying,  dying  daily, 

Still  the  little  prattling  tongue 
That  had  been  the  household's  treasure, 

And  the  little  lips  that  sung, 
Stilled  in  death  the  restless  fingers, 

And  the  little  toddling  feet; 
And  their  parents  in  their  sorrow 

Had  no  comfort  but  to  weep. 
One  by  one  Jehovah  called  them, 

Till  a  home  was  scarcely  found 
Where  some  loved  one  was  not  lying 

In  the  cold  and  noisome  ground. 
Prayer  and  fasting,  naught  availed  them, 

Day  by  day  the  sickness  spread; 
Kaging  midst  the  Jewish  children, 

Till  the  half  of  them  were  dead. 
Then  a  stricken,  weeping  mother, 

Who  had  lost  her  youngest  son, 

Sped  her  to  the  Rabbi,  |  crying, 

.  "  Save,  oh,  save  my  eldest  son." 

''  Woman! "  said  the  Rabbi  sadly, 

"  Am  I  God,  to  do  this  thing? 

*  F.  P.  Kopta:  vlironik  von  Bvhmen,[Pi&gne,  1852. 
f  The  Rabbi's  name  was  Low. 


A  JEWISH  LEGEND  OF  Pit  AGUE.  175 

Much  as  I  have  loved  my  pupil, 

Can  I  save  him  from  death's  sting?" 
"  Oh,  Rabbiner,"  said  the  woman, 
"  You  are  learned  and  very  wise, 
And  Jehovah  loves,  your  master, 

He  will  listen  to  your  sighs." 
"  Woman!  for  the  good  of  Israel 

Will  you  sacrifice  your  son?  " 
But  the  woman  started  backward, 

Clasping  to  her  heart  her  son. 
"  'Twas  revealed  me  in  a  vision," 

The  learned  Rabbi  sadly  said, 
"  For  the  crying  sins  of  Israel, 

See  our  little  ones  are  dead. 
'Twas  revealed  me  in  a  vision, 

All  our  dearest  ones  must  die, 
Till  some  woman  gives  her  darling, 

Gives  him  up  without  a  sigh. 
To  the  graveyard  they  must  lead  him, 

Leave  him  there  amidst  the  graves; 
He  will  see  strange  sights  and  visions, 

Hiding  where  the  tall  grass  waves; 
He  will  see  the  children  dancing, 

Dancing  in  their  shrouds  of  lawn; 
111  and  out  amidst  the  stone  heaps, 

They  will  dance  their  dance  forlorn. 
He  must  creep,  and  creep  still  onward, 

Till  he  nears  the  dancing  band; 
Then  with  fearless  heart  nnshaking, 

Seize  a  shroud  with  skillful  hand, 
Seize  a  shroud  and  bring  it  to  me, 

Then  the  pestilence  will  cease. 
Woman,  is  thy  heart  so  holy 

Thou  canst  give  thy  son  in  peace?  " 
Weeping  from  the  Rabbi's  presence, 

Went  that  mother  stricken  sore. 
"  Oh,  Johovah,  spare  my  children; 

Spare  the  little  son  I  bore!" 
When  the  evening  shadows  lengthened, 

Lo,  a  girl  died  in  her  arms, 
And  the  morrow  found  her  weeping, 

Her  dead  baby's  little  charms. 


176  BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 

Then  the  broken-hearted  mother, 

Weeping,  led  her  eldest  born 
To  the  Rabbi,  saying  sadly, 
"  Take  him — let  me  die  forlorn! 
Better  he  should  die  for  Israel, 

If  Jehovah  will  it  so, 
Than  sink  down  beside  the  others, 

Who  are  lying  still  and  low."  ' 
"  Woman!"  said  the  Rabbi,  raising 

Both  his  hands  above  her  head, 
"  May  Jehovah  spare  thy  eldest, 

For  the  words  that  thou  hast  said. 
Like  to  Abraham,  who  offered 

Isaac  with  a  perfect  heart, 
May  Jehovah  spare  thy  darling,. 

Reunite  thee  ne'er  to  part." 
When  the  evening  shadows  gathered 

In  the  graveyard  sad  and  lone, 
Lo,  the  Jewish  boy  was  watching, 

Hid  behind  a  mighty  stone. 
And  at  midnight  all  the  children 

Rose  as  the  Rabbi  had  said, 
Dancing  in  their  shrouds  of  linen 

Till  the  midnight  hour  had  fled. 
Then  the  Jewish  boy  soft  creeping, 

Caught  the  shroud  of  one  near  by, 
Rushed  away  without  once  turning 

At  the  children's  bitter  cry; 
On  he  fled,  fled  ever  onward, 

Till  he  reached  the  Rabbi's  home. 
At  his  feet  he  lay  the  garment, 

Then  fell  senseless  as  a  stone. 
Soon  the  Rabbi  heard  a  wailing, 

And  a  childish  voice  called  clear: 
"  Give  me  back  my  shroud  of  linen, 

I  am  naked,  master,  dear." 
"  Tell  me,"  said  the  Rabbin  sternly, 
"  For  whose  sins  the  children  die?" 
Then  the  childish  voice  spake  clearly, 

Telling  him  the  reason  why. 
Back  he  gave  the  child  his  garment, 

Bid  him  sleep  in  peace  for  aye. 
Fast  and  penance  then  he  ordered, 

That  the  plague  might  pass  away. 


JAN  AMOS  KOMENSKY.  177 


JAN  AMOS  KOMENSKY  (COMENIUS).* 

All  hail  to  thee,  Komensky,  though  thy  name 

Must  not  be  honored  where  thy  cradle  stood, 
Nor  happy  troops  of  children  sing  thy  fame, 

The  little  ones  you  loved  and  understood. 
Yes,  all  the  world  can  honor  thee,  but  those 

For  whom  you  strove,  your  brothers  must  be  still — 
Forbidden  by  a  minister,  they  rose, 

To  do  thee  honor,  'gainst  a  tyrant's  will. 

Prague  like  a  bride  arrayed  herself  with  flags, 

And  windows  blazed,  and  music  played  for  thee, 
And  e'en  the  beggars  put  away  their  rags, 

And  students  dared  to  dream  that  they  were  free. 
All  hail  to  thee,  Komensky!  though  thy  fate 

Was  but  an  exile's — home  you  never  had — 
Poor  and  a  wanderer,  honor  came  too  late 

To  minister  to  one  so  old  and  sad. 

*  On  March  28th,  1892,  the  Bohemians  wanted  to  celebrate 
the  three  hundredth  anniversary  of  the  birthday  of  the  renowned 
pedagogue,  John  Amos  Komensky,  like  the  rest  of  the  world,  by 
making  the  schoolchildren  free.  For  no  reason  on  earth,  the 
Austrian  government  forbid  this  celebration.  In  spite  of  this, 
Prague,  and  every  city,  even  the  castles  and  villages,  hung  out 
flags  and  illuminated  the  windows.  I  was  asked  to  write  a 
poem  on  the  subject.  Komensky  was  also  Bishop  of  the  Mora- 
vian Brethren,  and  exiled  by  Ferdinand  II.  with  the  other  Pro- 
testants. The  rector  of  the  Prague  University  in  his  own  right 
dismissed  the  students,  and  over  five  hundred  paraded  the  streets, 
singing  national  songs.  No  parents  sent  their  children  to  school, 
so  that  the  teachers  had  to  close  the  schools.  A  deputation  was 
sent  to  Naarden  (Holland)  with  a  magnificent  wreath  to  lay  on  his 
grave,  which  was  done  in  the  presence  of  hundreds  of  Dutch  who 
had  gone  out  on  purpose  to  honor  his  grave. 


178  BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 

Thine  was  the  Christian's  faith,  the  dauntless  heart, 

That  in  the  darkest  night  still  dreams  of  dawn; 
Thine  was  the  effort,  thine  the  glorious  part, 

To  help  the  children  in  a  world  forlorn. 
Thy  voice  was  heard  in  every  noble  cause, 

And  Europe  listened  to  Moravia's  son. 
In  many  lands  you  helped  to  make  the  laws, 

For  schools,  and  scholars,  till  thy  days  were  done. 

Thine  was  the  patriot's  zeal,  thy  native  tongue 

To  make  more  rich,  by  works  that  shall  not  die, 
And  far  away  in  foreign  lands  you  sung 

Your  burning  words,  that  ended  with  a  sigh. 
All  hail  to  thee,  Komensky!  though  thy  bones 

Will  never  rest  within  thy  land  of  birth. 
In  Naarden  is  a  grave  that  in  all  zones 

Will  be  remembered  by  the  learned  of  earth. 

All  hail  to  thee,  Komensky!  tyrant's  might 

Can  never  pluck  the  laurels  from  thy  brow, 
Nor  will  thy  brothers  let  oblivion's  night 

Enshroud  the  grave  where  thou  art  lying  now. 
Thou  wert  an  exile — but  thy  grave  shall  be 

Crowned  with  a  laurel  wreath  from  thy  dear  land, 
While  sympathetic  nations  mourn  to  see 

The  tyranny  that  crushes  thy  loved  land. 

All  hail  to  thee,  Komensky!  homeless  here, 

Thou  now  hast  found  a  home  in  realms  more  fair. 
An  orphan — now  a  Father  wipes  the  tear 

And  lays  the  conqueror's  crown  upon  thy  hair. 
'What  matters  if  thou  sleep  in  alien  soil — 

Thy  grave  is  honored,  be  it  where  it  will. 
Dishonor  only  rests  on  those  who  toil 

To  bind  their  fellowmen  against  their  will. 


THE  BOD  T  AND  THE  SO  UL.  179 


THE  BODY  AND  THE  SOUL. 

A   BOHEMIAN   LEGEND. 

In  the  churchyard,  by  the  chapel, 

A  lost  soul  was  heard  disputing 
With  its  body  lying  rigid, 

In  its  coffin  calmly  sleeping. 
"  Oh,  you  body,  wretched  body, 

In  rich  silks  you  flaunted  gayly. 
Wanton  were  your  ways  and  pastimes — 

Now  I  suffer  for  you  sadly. 

"  Every  thing  you  saw  you  wanted — 

Every  pleasure  you  have  tasted, 
Clothed  in  gold  and  costly  raiments, 

See,  your  life  was  wholly  wasted. 
In  the  dance  your  feet  were  quickest, 

Where  the  tambourines  were  playing, 
And  the  wayward  youth  were  singing, 

Tender  words,  in  sooth,  were  saying. 

<f  At  the  feast  the  flowing  goblet, 

You  have  emptied  without  number, 
Never  did  you  think  of  praying, 

When  you  lay  you  down  to  slumber. 
You  have  danced  to  sweetest  music — • 

I  must  writhe  in  mortal  anguish. 
While  your  body  sleeps  there  calmly, 

I  in  hell  am  doomed  to  languish." 

Then  the  body  answered  coldly, 
"  Tell  me,  soul,  were  you  not  with  me 
When  I  lived  in  wanton  splendor, 
Was  there  anything  kept  from  thee?" 


180  BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 

Then  the  soul  said,  speaking  sadly, 
"  You  say  truly  I  was  with  you, 
But  not  mistress  of  my  actions — 
They  were  forced  upon  me  by  you/5 

"  Waste  no  time  in  speaking  to  me," 

Said  the  body,  growing  weary; 
"  Let  me  rest  and  haste  thee  thither, 

Where  the  endless  years  stretch  dreary.' 
"  I  will  go,"  the  soul  said,  calmly, 
"  Leaving  thee  to  worms  and  foulness, 
Bearing  all  the  pains  that  must  be, 
Till  I  find  God's  mercy  endless." 


THE  MASTER  WORK.  18 1 


THE  MASTER  WORK. 

Our  master,  Rubens,  on  a  summer's  day, 

Wandering  in  Spain,  went  in  a  convent  church, 
A  poor  bare  church,  I  often  heard  him  say, 

Belonging  to  an  order  most  severe. 
Idly  he  looked  around,  but  soon  his  gaze 

Was  fixed  upon  the  picture  of  a  monk, 
A  dying  monk — but  ne'er  in  all  his  days 

Had  he  beheld  a  work  of  art  like  this; 
He  called  his  pupils,  and  they  also  gazed, 

Admiring— wondering  whose  this  work  might  be. 
When  Thulden  turning  to  them  half  amazed, 

Said  slowly,  "  See  the  name  was  written  once, 
But  desecrating  hands  have  dared  efface 

The  name  that  would  have  shown  throughout  the 

land." 
"  Go  call  the  prior,"  Rubens  said,  his  face 

Flushed  with  the  wrath  that  shown  within  his  eyes. 
The  prior  came,  a  man  of  many  years; 

His  wan  white  face  and  sunken  eyes  showed  plain, 
That  life  to  him  had  been  a  vale  of  tears. 

Silent  he  listened  to  the  master's  praise. 
"  But  tell  me  now,  oh,  father,  whose  the  hand, 

The  hand  that  painted  with  a  master's  skill, 
That  dying  monk,  and  all  the  heavenly  band? 

I  fain  would  see  his  face  before  I  die." 
"  He  is  no  longer  of  this  world,  my  son," 

The  monk  replied,  his  voice  was  sad  and  low: 
"  No  longer  of  this  world!  His  days  are  done!  " 
"  And  could  he  die,  and  leave  his  name  unknown?" 
"  His  name  unknown — oh,  God,  it  cannot  be — 

The  hand  that  painted  this  shall  never  die. 
Tell  me  his  name,  oh,  father,  I  will  see 

Justice  be  done  his  shade,  for  I  am  one 


182  BOHEMIAN  LEGENDS. 

Not  all  unknown  to  fame— you  know  my  name 

Is  Rubens,  but  I  tell  you  all  to-day; 
The  hand  that  painted  this  hath  greater  fame" 

Than  any  I  have  won  beneath  the  sun." 
A  flush  of  red  o'erspread  the  monk's  pale  face, 

A  blaze  of  light  burnt  in  the  somber  eyes, 
Now  fixed  on  Rubens  for  a  moment's  space, 

Then  slowly  faded,  as  he  calmly  said, 
"  He  is  no  longer  of  this  world,  my  son." 
"  Tell  us  his  name,"  the  pupils  cried;  "  his  name 
Shall  be  remembered — his  the  victory  won, 

Though  he  lie  still  and  silent  in  the  grave." 
"  Tell  us  his  name,"  our  master  Rubens  said, 
"  Before  whose  fame  perhaps  my  own  will  fade. 
Let  us  do  justice  to  the  soul  that  fled, 

Unknown,  uuhonored  to  the  silent  land." 
The  monk  was  troubled,  and  his  trembling  hands 

He  folded  on  his  breast,  to  still  his  heart, 
As  though  afraid  it  might  burst  its  bands, 

And  tell  the  name  that  quivered  on  his  lips. 
"  He  is  no  longer  of  this  world,"  he  said, 
"  A  convent  door  has  closed  upon  his  life; 
He  has  renounced  this  world — see  he  is  dead! 

Leave  him  in  peace,  my  son,  he  is  a  monk." 
"  A  monk!  "  said  Rubens,  "  Oh,  my  father,  say, 

"What  convent  hides  the  man  that  painted  this? 
A  genius  has  no  right  to  turn  away, 

And  scorn  the  fame  that  would  attend  his  steps; 
I  shall  go  to  him,  whisper  in  his  ear, 
'  Fame  beckons  to  thee,  friend,  come  leave  thy  cell/ 
And  should  he  tremble,  and  draw  back  in  fear, 

I  will  assure  him  of  the  pope's  good  will. 
The  pope  he  loves  me,  father,  he  will  hear, 

He  will  absolve  him  from  his  convent  vow, 
And  he  will  live  among  us  ever  near, 

Honored  and  loved,  and  reverenced  by  us  all." 
"  I  will  not  tell  you  what  his  name  may  be, 

Nor  where  he  lives,"  the  monk  replied  in  haste. 
"  Leave  him  in  peace,  my  son,  this  may  not  be — 

He  has  renounced  the  world  and  all  its  fame." 
Then  Rubens  said  in  wrath:  "The  pope  shall  know 

What  treasure  you  have  hid  in  convent  cell." 


THE  MASTER  WORK.  183 

Believe  me,  father,  he  will  quickly  send 

A  messenger  to  bring  him  from  his  cell." 
"  Listen  to  me,  iny  sou,"  the  monk  replied, 
"  Before  this  weary  soul  at  length  found  cheer, 
Think  you  he  had  no  struggle  with  himself — 

Ere  he  renounced  the  world,  and  then  came  here? 
Think  you  he  left  the  world,  its  wealth,  its  joy, 

Before  a  bitter  struggle  had  been  fought. 
Before  he  knew  how  idle  friendships  claim, 

How  vain  the  glory  that  the  many  sought. 
Striking  his  breast,  he  said,  "  Listen,  my  son, 

Leave  him  in  peace,  where  peace  he  sought  and  found, 
E'en  earthly  fame  is  but  an  idle  dream, 

One  sleeps  as  well  'ueath  monument  or  mound, 
And  if  you  saw  him,  mark  me,  he  would  say, 

And  here  he  crossed  himself,  that  God  alone 
Had  called  him  to  this  cloister  cell  unknown, 

Where  he  in  peace  could  for  his  sins  atone. 
And  He  who  called  him,  see,  my  son,  can  give 

Strength  to  renounce  this  prospect  seeming  fair, 
That  you  thrust  on  him,  oh,  I  know  him  well, 

He  would  not  yield   but  lo,  he  might  despair." 
"  Yes,  but  my  fathe     'tis  an  endless  fame, 

That  he  renounce^  for  this  convent  cell." 
"  My  son,  what  is  an  endless  fame  on  earth, 

To  the  eternities  where  God  doth  dwell?" 
Rubens  was  silent,  and  his  scholars  all, 

With  saddened  faces,  left  the  cloister  gate. 
The  prior  went  back,  and  by  his  narrow  bed 

Fell  on  his  knees  and  thanked  God  for  his  fate. 
Then  he  arose,  and  gathered  up  his  paints, 

Brushes/and  palette,  with  sad,  pale  face, 
And  threw  them  in  the  river  flowing  near; 

Of  all  his  many  works  he  left  no  traee. 
Sadly  he  watched  them  floating  far  away, 

While  thoughts  unutterable  before  him  swept, 
And  then  he  turned  him  to  his  crucifix, 

To  seek  the  aid  of  Him  "  who  also  wept." 


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